By the Book
by jkwasher
Summary: Fourth Season dramatically affects everyone at the Absaroka County Sheriff's Station. Walt finds himself trying to reach the elusive goal of running both his professional and personal lives By the Book, something he had never managed before, and in the process of pursuing it, manages to lose his best friend and possible soulmate. Vic struggles with her own demons.
1. Chapter 1

**BTB**

 **POS FOURTH SEASON – SPOILERS!**

 **You: You know who you are, you've been warned!**

 _ **A/N: You may have seen a few of my gacccckkkkk posts in reviews, expressing how my poor lil shipper heart was broken as Season 4 unfolded. I am shell-shocked and one of those who had to be talked off a virtual ledge of Grand Canyon scope. I mean, tears, lots of them. A few of you writers, you know who, and a few readers, you know who, have talked me through this. In particular, the lyrics to the song "Bones" by Jaida Dreyer (in the Seasons 1-3 Recap Trailer promoting Season 4) spoke to me. Be forewarned, I have NOT seen most of Season 4. My husband and I are going to watch it as Craig Johnson is, one per week. For us, the entirety is probably too muc,h too soon. * If* I have made any huge gaffes, PLEASE PM me.**_

 _ **This plotline inspiration is due to Vickrok's *husband*. Have any of us with those other halves ever acknowledged them? LOL—so, I brought mine in, too. Thank you, DW! I discussed with *mine* the possibilities of two plot points well before Season 1 began…that the slide in the department started just after Martha was diagnosed, and that training under Lucian had been *anything* but "By the Book." After Martha's diagnosis, everything at the station just got deferred and/or spiraled down. Walt had hired two green deputies just before her diagnosis, but basically ignored both Ferg and Branch as his focus honed in on Martha, as was proper. He took chances, like buying pot from Jamie for Martha. Branch became unpredictable, as though privileged, he could pursuehis own agenda. Ferg languished unappreciated and only self-trained. Lucian's Old School ways wouldn't answer to fill in for Walt, but Ruby did her best to keep the station limping along.**_

 _ **Walt hired Vic six months after Martha had been murdered because he saw the spiraling decay, but he was at that point powerless to stop it, and thought Vic would do what he could not, keep his department running, By the Book. He eventually made his way back to the station, and in the course of several years, found himself falling in love with his deputy, yet the whole station was still dysfunctional and showing the strain due to his earlier neglect.**_

 _ **With Branch murdered and the Wrongful Death suit regarding Barlow still pending, Walt realizes it's now time for him to resume his position of authority, and attempt to do what Vic's been doing for so long…operating By the Book, but her offer to lie for him after his misguided attempt on Jacob's life, even as she had covered for him and almost lost her career after his visit to Gorski, and after she took the punch meant for Jacob, he realizes he can't accept her offer in good conscience, can't compromise her, so he clumsily cuts all ties with her over a few months. It had been so comparatively easy with Lizzie, they had only been intimate one night and never dated, but with Vic, he has found friendship, the comfort of silence without words, a staunch partner who has his back, and absolute loyalty. Losing her, he has lost more…so much more…**_

 _ **But before the main event…inspiration lyrics: This, and a few lines from Sitting on a Time Bomb, are giving me hope for Season 5…I hope in the context of my story, they can provide you with some solace, too. If not, there's always Pappy Van Winkles. *WINK***_

 _ **BONES**_

 _ **By Jaida Dreyer**_

 _ **Throwin' faith in the fire**_

 _ **It's time to go**_

 _ **Live free or die tryin'**_

 _ **Gonna justify my soul**_

 _ **I broke the silence**_

 _ **I walk alone**_

 _ **Made friends with darkness**_

 _ **Out here digging a hole**_

 _ **Every now and then you let what you love go**_

 _ **And the wicked things you carry swallow you up whole**_

 _ **Bless these bleedin' hands**_

 _ **and what will rest below**_

 _ **I'm buryin' bones**_

 _ **Buryin' bones.**_

 _ **There's somethin' waiting.**_

 _ **That cannot be found**_

 _ **Tied to the Chains**_

 _ **Of what's goin' in the ground.**_

 _ **Right now, I'm strong**_

 _ **But I'm not naïve,**_

 _ **One day this could be**_

 _ **The death of me.**_

 _ **Every now and then you let what you love go**_

 _ **And the wicked things you carry swallow you up whole.**_

 _ **Bless these bleedin' hands**_

 _ **and what will rest below**_

 _ **I'm buryin' bones**_

 _ **Buryin' bones.**_

 _ **(There may be more lyrics to this song, we have only heard a short version. Any mistakes are MINE from personal transcription.)**_

 _ **XXX**_

 **Chapter One**

The level of Pappy's in the glass bottle had lowered appreciably and the conversation turned at first desultory, then non-existent by the time the late-evening July sun had set. The mild summer evening belayed a cool tension hovering between them in the modest room, silent, reaching only invisible tendrils, yet bold enough to make itself known.

Finally Lucian said, "I hear from Ruby you've keeping yourself running dusk to dawn, trying to clean the old place up."

Walt pressed his lips together, trying to feign apparent concentration, twirling his rook in his fingers without lifting it.

"Ruby is calling it _BTB_."

At that, he felt his eyes flicker up to his old mentor.

"That being…?"

"By the Book. That distant thing, that elusive holy grail you and Ruby and I never found, that for which I never trained you, because we never grasped it ourselves. You seemed to figure out how to get around it and things seemed to generally turn out pretty well. You took over and did all right with what you did have, at least before Martha got sick…"

At that, Walt shrugged. The whiskey went down warm and smooth, but less welcomed than usual. Although he sought solace he could not find in it, and although their Tuesday night chess had expanded to include Thursday evenings at Walt's tentative suggestion, he still did not find that, any more than he had ever found the elusive By the Book Lucian alluded to a moment ago.

"How's the lawsuit prep?"

 _Wrongful death_ , of a man who committed murder. "I can't comment on a pending case."

"See? _By the Book_. No fun, anymore, Walt."

He thought about Henry, doing a couple more weeks of jail time after botching a Hector impersonation. He had promised Henry no more prison, done his best, and with Cady's and Mathias' help had gotten him a minimum security gig, but still…Henry had told him _he used to be fun_ , but he knew that must have been a lifetime ago, at least before Martha had been diagnosed. Then, any fun he ever remembered had ended.

"You still seeing that Lady Head Doctor?"

Walt winced. No, and that was another reason to find solace in a glass of Pappy's. She had cut him loose after their half-date had been interrupted by his past. Even as the man lay half-dead unconscious at his feet, he suspected his reaction to the intruder had given her just cause to go to her own therapist for years.

The investigation had suggested he could use some therapy, too. He had been given a list, just as he had years prior, when every so often something violent had managed to happen. Ruby had dutifully made an appointment for him, and before the first hour was up, he'd given the pleasant young doctor a new set of nightmares of his very own. The youngster, obviously shaken, had been very professional and suggested to increase visits to three times a week, but he had grabbed his hat, almost run out the door and not taken any further calls from their practice. He was, after all and a lifetime of it, a master of deflection.

"Nope," was all he said. It was, after all, none of Lucian's business.

That echoed in his head…" _My personal life…is none of your business_."

He winced and took another slug from his crystal glass. That was why he was here with Lucian, safe and warm and insulated from the foibles of life, from love and hatred and everything in between. Right now, he told himself, he needed the undemanding and unconditional affection he shared with the old sheriff.

Lucian shifted. "Getting too old to sit this long," he said, and it was obvious he was trying to jump-start the dying conversation.

"Where's your second, anyway?"

"My second?"

"Or your first, I'm not sure where she fit in down the line with Dr. Drab… No, she should have been your first. Still should. Feisty little Moretti."

"Lucian…" he said it with warning, but it was not a topic he was prepared to address.

When she was released from the hospital, he suspected Vic would again take the unpopular evening shift. In unspoken agreement, she had begun taking shifts when he was not on duty at the station. She no longer rode with him, no longer had arguments about cultural icons he had never heard of, or listened to his stories of the adventures he'd found growing up. No more…

He knew he had stabbed to death any semblance of friendship they had developed over the years. He missed it, and her, especially when on calls, but he would never say a word. He alone was responsible, and she would be better off with a younger, more stable man, and he would do his damnedest to try and promote that _by the book._

Not that he hadn't heard about some of her escapades. Before she'd begun changing the duty rosters, he'd called her into his office, leaving the door pointedly open.

"Ethics, Deputy. Maybe we don't have a morals clause…"

"But maybe you fucking should, and if it bothers you, fire me."

It was an unmistakable challenge, one he might have considered taking a year ago, and then might have kissed her, but it was still early days after his flirtation with death from the cabin thing; he was not yet prepared either to deal with anything inside, nor lose an integral part of the department, not yet.

Without Branch, they remained woefully understaffed. Before the cabin invasion, he had asked again about rehiring Zach or Eammon, as though their transgressions had been addressed and were merely in a hiatus, despite both doing fine jobs…

She had balked about Eammon. "I told him I'd talked to you about it, and he agreed."

He wasn't so sure he was hearing the whole conversation, and made a mental note to talk to Eammon himself about it later, but just said again what had become his recent mantra. "Really can't afford any more bad publicity for the department right now, Vic."

She turned to him. You mean _you_ can't afford it. We're just covering for you, like we always do." And then turned on her heel, into the hall without a word, and after that, the duty rosters changed dramatically. Lucian's face swam back into focus.

"Walt? You listening? Yep, I'm talking about the Italian one who began to sound like you. The one who forgets to button her shirt. I always thought she'd been taking buttoning lessons from you." He lip-pointed to where the top three buttons of Walt's shirt lay undone, exposing a profusion of rapidly silvering chest hair, and a hint of the stitches still healing he wore since the fracas in the cabin. It was just one more to add to the party.

"Looks better on her," said Lucian provocatively. "She seeing anyone, now? That mealy-faced accountant fella wasn't worthy of a woman like her." He smacked his lips. "I always thought she did have a thing for older guys…"

"Lucian, if you're just going to ramble on, I'll leave." When had he gotten so… _fustian_? That was an old word, out of one of his remaining friends, his books, but Lucian was really asking for it, tonight. "But it's still none of your business."

 _None of your business._ Wince.

"I'm just saying. Man likes you, needs a woman, someone to go home to, someone to cook and launder for him, warm his bed…"

Okay, so Lucian had turned into a crusty old comedian. "You're one to talk, never succumbed to _any_ woman, and you _know_ Martha wasn't like that…"

"No," Lucian said softly, "but neither is Doctor Drab. Maybe you should consider one of those types I'm talking about, if you're going to throw away the more spirited fillies." He snorted, before hawking a big lougie into the brass spittoon in the corner.

Walt wasn't even sure if spittoons were allowed in retirement _facilities._ It brought up the image of Lucian in an open-door cell arguing with Branch over shooting up the retirement home. A pang in the general vicinity of his heart began to grow, and then, alarmingly.

He stood up suddenly, grabbed his hat.

"Just remembered I need to be somewhere," he said, sliding the rook with one finger and toppling Lucian's knight.

"Well, shit with sneakers on!" exclaimed Lucian, who studied the board even as Walt managed to crank his hat down and leave the old sheriff to his own devices.

He made it halfway down the stairs toward where the Bronco sat in privileged OFFICIAL parking, before he started to cry over Branch, over Vic, over what he had become.


	2. Chapter 2

By the Book

Chapter 2

I am Vic. I am so fucked. _Toxic_. In Philly I was alternately The Terror or the By the Book that graduated me in upper 10% of my class and earned me four citations in five years. Unfortunately, both of those monikers got me in trouble. To understand why it's here and now that I'm nowhere, you have to understand me.

I used to be The Terror to my family as a teenager, and took a kind of pride in being unexpected and outrageous in the wake of four brothers. It takes *something* to be noticed in a menagerie like that, especially in a family of cops. A near-miss with the law when I was seventeen, and I suddenly realized I was hanging with cretins, and familial spats or not, I liked it way better on the right side, and became the precursor to By the Book Vic.

That got me to the Academy, and for the next ten years I was patrol, then newly on homicide, where I saw some dark shit going down between a couple of veteran cops. That and manipulation by a cop who thought he was charming me but was actually a cheater, chilled me to the bone.

As a result, By the Book Vic ruled as a whistleblower, and a man killed himself over it. I married Sean while all this was going down. Sean tried to protect me, to be fair, he did, and we left Philly to get out from under that oppressive shit that hangs over you all your life like a pall. For sure I didn't want to become another Bobby Donaletto in ten years.

Sure, I wasn't thrilled with Durant at first, but the challenge of solving complex cases using simple methods like brains and observation instead of laboratory minutaie, that made up for dead dogs on the road and confrontations among the panoply of cultures intersecting in that tiny town and one huge county.

And, then there was Walt. Never Sheriff Longmire to me, we spent three years tentatively becoming friends while he sifted through the remains of his life after his wife had died. We worked well together, and I even saved him once from a pot grower whose contact had gotten in over his head with a Mexican drug cartel. That he had confronted the killer alone earned him a dressing down from me, separating when confronting a possible killer, not a good plan. See, that's part of him. He's not much more of a team player than Branch, that's what I think Walt saw in Branch.

Walt has his flaws, or maybe that's an understatement. He sometimes drinks too much, he is taciturn and unappreciative. He's this crossbred product of the Old West 'Thank you, ma'am,' and kickass from the military he won't discuss. After his first bar-fight with a motorcycle gang, it became obvious to me that he doesn't always go By the Book, which was probably the most shocking thing for me to work around. That, and after a fist-fight with a former boxer (he said he won, I thought maybe it was a draw?) I discovered he was actually a Hidden Terror. This rather intrigued the Former Terror.

So, what happened? Something about Former Terror meets a Hidden Terror, I think, I was drawn to him, well beyond all his shit, and all he was going through. It kept going, the non-team player Branch, a deputy less dry behind the ears than me, ran against him for sheriff, his friend Henry was imprisoned for murder, and it was hell to even get Henry out on bail, every easy way destroyed. Another good man died along the way, but again I had a hand in it, even if I didn't pull the trigger.

Never, never for a minute had I thought Walt's wife had been murdered…until wild-eyed after Branch had been shot, he revealed it to me. Knowing how deep he buries stuff, I was shocked, but professional. It seemed like he was finally willing to confide in me.

He tried to keep me in the loop throughout the investigations, he did, even clued me into some sinister characters I didn't study well enough he thought might be responsible for his wife's murder, and I stupidly got captured by one of them. Sean did take the initiative and call Walt, or we would have been dead and probably cozily stored in one of Chance's freezers. We fought a duel, a fucking *duel* to get Sean and me released. I still have moments when that day overwhelms me.

After that, after I was hurt, Walt became…unprofessionally overprotective. He had me lock myself in his office to protect me from Branch, even while he went after David Ridges without backup. I didn't want to lock myself in his office, but By the Book didn't want to screw the pooch, so I followed Sheriff's orders. It almost got Walt killed. This toxicity thing, it's a pattern, see?

Walt found me on the bridge after Barlow had let an angry Branch out, thought someone should stay on with me, but didn't want to tell me my husband had filed divorce papers because, guess what? — Sean thought Walt and I were too close.

Little did Sean know…getting anything out of Walt was like extracting dynamite in tiny nuggets. That evening Walt served me with divorce papers and…asked me to stay. Stay for what? Now I look back, maybe he was just sorry for me and wanted to be sure I knew I had a job. Was I smart enough to ask that? No. It was his eyes, always his eyes… _Stay on with you_ took on different dimensions after he asked me 'to stay,' but again, I must have misunderstood.

So I made a rookie cop mistake, didn't get it all out in a written statement, confession, whatever. I misunderstood. It really seems it was as simple as that. I thought the eyes were saying one thing, when his mind was off on another. Or, to be more accurate, maybe at that time, what was in his words _was_ in his eyes…maybe it was Branch's death that turned the equation on its head.

Just before that, after Henry's release, I had put on my tightest jeans, a shirt unbuttoned a little low, combed my hair and taken a six-pack of Rainier to his cabin. To my dismay and humiliation, Henry answered the door, a little distraught at Walt's saddle not in the right place, and I thought, very judgmental of how I looked. I erased my message on Walt's answering machine, and put my uniform back on.

Down by the river, I've never seen Walt like that, before. Ferg and I, we had nothin', standing behind him where he knelt in the creek beside Branch's body. Poor Walt to find him, poor me to think this was the third in a triumvirate of men who had died because of me. It occurred to me that Walt was too tough, too good to die, but he would be next on the list if we ever did hook up.

It all led back to toxic me. I had been part of Bobby Donaeletto's suicide. I had started the sequence of events which led to Hector's murder. I had reported Branch and gotten him suspended, which led to what we thought was his suicide. Without food, I got smashed on the 6 pack of Rainier, and cried over a possum by the riverbank where Branch had died. Walt showed up, covered me with a blanket in his Bronco, and buried my possum. It was his next-to-next-to-last act of kindness toward me…

He saw me reacting to that baseball bat during the War Eagle case, how I white-knuckled it, and offered to talk if I wanted. I knew it meant medical leave if a shrink saw me, so I maintained I was fine. I threw it in his face, mocked him about offering later, and he did not bring it up again.

A couple of months later, there was a slight reprieve in my toxicity, to find that Barlow, not me, was responsible for Branch's death, but still…back to Walt, that meant somebody else was in line after Hector, right? I was terrified I'd get Walt killed if I hesitated to pull the trigger when needed, because of the dreams I kept having. Crusty old Lucian called it 'Bullet Fever,' and we'd all seen it before, in different incarnations. The Gillette woman…

I was afraid to partner with him again, but was saved while he voluntarily took time off pending the FBI investigation after Barlow. I ended up spening a lot of time with loaner deputy Eamonn. O'Neill. Stupid idea. Eamonn was nice enough, but I was desperate and pathetic enough to want his adoration, not his respect or friendship.

When Walt finally returned, in a perplexing turn of events, everything turned on its head. Walt changed. He became…*me,* By the Book Walt. He hired, then fired Zack for acting exactly like Walt had with the biker gang, and although people thought it was because he was jealous, now I know better. It was because he was slowly putting his department back together, what I had been hired on to provide as a stop-gap but did not have the full authority to enact. He began a stickler for propriety and the very By the Book procedural methods we had never before mastered as a department.

And he began to distance himself from me. Why? Maybe it was realizing just how toxic I was, and that he was next in line to be infected. Maybe it was the older guy-younger gal thing, or that I was his deputy. I had thought we were both well beyond that, but…something was wrong.

"Some people don't know how to end things." He had made that comment in the hall after those girls were charged with murder and accessory…but was it about the girls, or was he talking to me? Based upon his behavior, I had to conclude it was to me, because what ever had maybe started with that hug in the ER exam room had apparently disappeared.

And, as his last act of kindness to me, he even, more or less kindly, gently, and helping, evicted me from my house. In the wake of the divorce, and no contributions from Sean, I had no money to pay any of the bills and had been in denial for a while. Not sleeping, not taking care of myself, it was all in the pattern post-Chance, post-Sean, post-Walt.

My salary barely scraped by for food and expenses. When before, I might have thought Walt might ask me to move in with him until I could find something, Walt tactfully moved me into Cady's house, which would have once felt hugely awkward. Now, it just felt like I had a room-mate just slightly younger than me, and further distanced Walt and me.

So I retreated to my only defensive team, The Terror. He seemed to retreat into his By the Book proscript that he must 'see' someone his age. Apparently Lizzie was not the only fish in the sea. The shrink. It had to be her. It didn't take real long to figure out.

And so I wanted to hurt him. I slept with Eamonn in his daughter's house. Once. Fortunately, Eamonn slapped me with ice water and recognized that I had to figure out me before we could continue with anything more between us. He was right. All I knew was I wanted to hurt Walt more than he had hurt me. Unfortunately, I don't think I could, I don't think he ever even knew, or probably cared. Then.

With the Barlow Connally Wrongful Death suit pending, and several investigations stemming from how Branch's medical leave was handled, Branch's false arrest (well, it didn't bother _me_ after he tried to strangle me) and just a mound of legal morass, Walt remained preoccupied, and from simple observation, changing to a new shirt mid-day, I figured out he was fixing to date the PTSD shrink (heck, I had figured out Cady and Branch from less.)

Then, when challenged on it, he told me that his personal life was "None of your business." *None of my business.* — _None_ _of my business_ — Chilling. Final. Brutal.

After years of what amounted to friendship, partnership…it was mercifully only a few seconds, a sharp knife to the heart, and I'm convinced he knew what he was doing. Maybe he was twisting it to destroy any residual youthful sexual fantasies I might be having, but whatever, the method was effective.

Obviously _someone_ saw me drinking about it over the next few weeks. Walt challenged me on morals, someone having obviously seen me out doing my skank of the week imitation. I challenged him to fire me, and when he didn't, I just changed the duty rosters to partner him with either Eamonn or Ferg.

I presumed he went off to his assignations and I did something that seemed really unlike my old self.

In the relative calm through most evenings and nights, since I was not working with him, I could pretend my heart hadn't been broken, and I returned to By the Book Vic. I worked well beyond my shift hours, turned in all my paperwork before I left, no longer complained on the boring aspects of police work, stopped drinking, and went home in the dark of the night by myself to the lonely bed at Cady's spare room. I went on calls with Ferg or Eamonn, whoever was scheduled at night. We talked about _nothing._ They were not partners nor friends. They just _were._ Ruby looked concerned, and Cady looked at me askance more than once, but for once I had nothing to say.

So a few weeks into this new pattern Omar calls me out of the blue.

"Hear you're livin' with Cady," he said after unpleasantries were exchanged.

That made me even warier, in my ever-present flight or fight state.

"I'm not asking for a date, Vic, I just need to talk to you. It's important."

I admit, I was a little intrigued. Walt swore to Omar's honesty, so it was unlikely he was playing a game in this.

"As long as it's not a date." I set the boundaries. Fucked as I am, BTB Vic gives not an inch.

"Not. Well, I'll stake you to a burger at the Red Pony, but no strings are attached, I swear."

"Okay, then," I said, still hesitant.

"I'll meet you there, say, seven? Are you off by then?"

Wow, he did _not_ understand that the duty rosters were now opposite Walt, not in synch. Like everything else which had changed between me and Walt.

"I go in at eleven."

"Fine," he said, "Then I'll do all the drinkin'."

"Please don't – I probably can't give you a ride all the way out there and make it back by start time…"

"I'll stay there if I have to. The Indian'll see to that."

"'Kay." Not sure about all that, but when I walked into the Pony, it was during a merciful lull in a local band. I knew them—they tried hard to be almost not that bad. Henry was nowhere to be seen, a pity, but maybe he had opted hiding somewhere in the kitchen, with BTB Vic in the house.

Omar stood up when I approached his table, like Walt always did. Pang. Must be the generation. The age thing, another pang. Stupid heart. It was in full gear, tonight.

"Thought you might have chickened out." He had some of the really good Blanton's in front of him, but only a splash swirled in his glass.

"That bottle probably cost you my whole week's salary," I observed with an indulgent smile. I had nothing against Omar —he had come by his wealth _relatively_ honestly—one could say, since inherited it from a relative.

"I'd offer to share it with ya if you weren't going on duty in a couple of hours."

He called over the wait-staff, a pretty Indian woman I vaguely recognized. She took my iced tea order and disappeared.

"Lily has really grown up, she's just working here during college break."

Oh, it _was_ Lily, who I had helped retrieve from an Indian-run mobile brothel, the same one who had won the Miss Cheyenne title during the case involving a doctor murdered by one of the judges. She was so beautiful, I barely recognized her. When she returned, I said, "Good to see you, Lily. How's everything going?"

She launched into a several-minute description of college and how her Miss Cheyenne Title had opened up a world of possibilities. I tried to be interested and smiled. Inside, I crumbled. Walt and I had really worked together for the first time on that case.

"But I still help Uncle Henry when I can," she smiled. He knows I get the orders right."

I smiled some more. She went off, I unsmiled, and Omar turned to me.

"Heard some stuff, Vic."

I bristled a little. "What, about Eamonn? Or getting a little sloppy so Henry wouldn't let me drive home?"

"Heard you got divorced."

Oh. _That_ "stuff." Well. I nodded, mouth set mutinously for whatever hit on or onslaught might be coming.

He ran a finger around the rim of his glass. I was pretty sure it wasn't Henry's standard bar glass, it looked like lead crystal to me.

"I've been here, done that. Really loved Myra, but the shooting between us…well, one of us was going to get hurt, and the drinking was bad."

"Yeah, I was sorry to hear it went south for you, Omar. Not sorry that we don't have those 3 am calls, anymore, though."

"Well, I'm saying I know it's tough after. If you ever need to talk about it, I'm here."

 _Where_ had t _his_ Omar come from? Another planet? _Talking_ Omar? Almost like the Talking Walt Action Figure I had mocked months ago.

"Oh. Thanks, but it had been coming for a long time." I was uncomfortable talking about the divorce.

"Doesn't mean it hurts less. I may just be a dumb hunter, but I know that much."

"Yeah, well…" The dissolution of my marriage hadn't make me cry, but one of the causes just might. I was trying to keep it together long enough to have an excuse to leave.

"It occurred to me, ya know, I'm really only good at killing animals, so maybe I'm dense and all that, thought that maybe another guy was involved…"

"Wasn't, or woman either, as far as I know," I said, to clear the air. "Sean didn't like how much time I spent with Walt, though." Now, _why_ would I bring thatup?

"Stressful job," he said, "And you two _are_ close. You can tell."

I stared at him, momentarily fascinated by his _dense hunter_ pronouncement followed by insight. "How do you figure _that_?"

He shrugged. "Way you look at each other."

Shit. It was our eyes. It had to be—they betrayed us. Then I reviewed what he had just said in my head.

"You're saying—You mean, you think there's something in the way Walt looks at me?"

"Or you look at him?"

I made a noise. He did not misinterpret it.

"Yep," he said. "I had thought…well, I guess I might have been wrong. It sounds like you're working different shifts, now?"

"Yep," I replied quickly. Maybe _too_ quickly.

"Look," he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, as his steak and my burger arrived. He waited until Lily departed. "I'm not excusing Walt or the county, but I know decent jobs and salaries can be issues, here. I know housing can be, too, especially since the casino came on the scene. If you ever find yourself without, I've got security needs on two of my ranches in the south end of the county. Lots of cameras, but light duty. It would be a little over $40k and free room and board in the on-site cabins there."

It was a fucking _fortune_ compared to what I made. I know my eyes were intense, but all I said was, "Thanks—for the offer. It's…something to think about…" Good girl, don't reject it outright, and I could tell he was really trying. Maybe I _did_ have a friend in this town after all, but if it took me away to an even more remote location, where I would be both alone _and_ bored…

I played with my burger.

"No strings, Vic. I gotta say, though, you just look like Charlie Brown does after Lucy kicks away the football."

I wouldn't cry. I didn't cry. I just flagged Lily down.

"Sorry, something came up, I need it to go!" was all I could muster. It happened often enough on duty, but unfortunately not tonight. I was out to the truck and pounding down the road away from town before it all let go in a flood. His kindness had disarmed BTB Vic to the equivalent of an overfull watering can.

And her weakness terrified me.

A few more days passed. Walt and I did not cross paths, nor did he call. I did not expect him to, and he didn't disappoint.

I wanted to find a loft or a cabin like Walt's, but unlike my ex-husband working for Newitt, deputies are paid _nothing._ I ended up taking long drives, hikes, sitting by lakes and crying, or worse, contemplating walking into the lakes. Just walking out, not back. Considering Omar's offer. I could of course also explore Newitt, or even the casino. Neither held allure.

The détente continued. I no longer recognized myself. I couldn't sleep, couldn't function. I finally, after one wrenching afternoon where the urge to walk into the lake almost won over, made a decision.

It was because staying here, I was finally nowhere...not myself, not happy with my work, with my life.

I held off in a paralysis of making a move and weighing my options, until the afternoon his Dr. Donna's van burned. Tired of the evening shift, I had traded the early shift with Ferg so he could go to a family event, and he'd take my later shift. I responded to the call with him almost like old times, but in my cranked-down mode, suppressing The Terror that wanted to tell Dr. Donna my only aggression issues were with _her,_ I suggested to the Doctor that she should stay with him. I had tried the same thing with Lizzy, this time, maybe he would find whatever it was he was looking for.

It was later, early evening after my shift. I had just laid my badge and gun on his desk with yet another letter…seemed like our longest conversation _ever_ had been after my first letter addressed to him, about Branch. As I came down the hall preparing to say goodbye to Ruby and Ferg, the call came in.

A woman's voice, hysterical…What the _fuck? Doctor Donna?_ Her van burn again?

She repeated Walt's address and a chill went through me.

Lucian had taken the call, he had already relieved Ruby, working late dispatch. He got all official and said someone was on their way. He looked directly up at me.

Ferg stood up from his desk, ready as well.

"You going, Moretti?"

That could be taken so many ways.

And then the call about Walker Browning came in. _Decisions, decisions…_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

He still had not been able to bring himself to try and sleep at the cabin since the invasion there, and he had yet to hear anything remotely apologetic or lover-like from Donna, now out on bail. He really didn't expect to ever hear from her again. He knew that after everything had gone down, the D.A. had bagged her as an accessory in the Zoloft ring, once she had admitted she suffered from Reverse-Transference. She had the misfortune to literally fall in love with patient after patient. He wondered after all this, that maybe he had qualified. He had set her up as a Martha surrogate and expected her to like the same things he and Martha had shared over the years. That couldn't have been healthy…

But it was a blow to his two tentative forays into romance…not necessarily love, since Martha's death. He had been both intrigued and terrified of Vic, and backed off to save her, and that still burned inside, unresolved, but became a far more remote possibility since her relationship with Eammon had started. He was still having a hard time thinking that her relationship with Eammon wasn't cheating on him, even though he had never really _started_ anything with her. It had all been on hold, implied, until Henry would get released. At least, in his mind, it had been.

Walt felt more than a little sympathy for Zach, who had broken the case and eventually Walt's doors to help him bring in Donna. This all despite injury to the intruder, a co-patient and former deputorial applicant, and not before a few misunderstandings had been cleared up. Zach appearing to confront his ex-lover was not the true scenario. Instead, he had been keeping tabs on Monte Ford for days, apparently after somehow determining he was not experiencing paranoia symptoms. The serial killer wall in the hotel room had kind of cemented that for Zach.

In Walt's opinion, kicking the front doors in had been ill-advised, since it had put his fight-or-flight into motion, not healthy with thirty years of law enforcement and military under his belt. It had also precipitated a lot of screaming from Donna as Zach confronted Monte, although which combatant she was cheering for, he wasn't sure, but the small man who had sneaked in the side window, knife in hand, was another. Zach had seen both the knife and the man, but had taken his chances breaking into a seasoned lawman's home to intercept the intruder. That attitude, that _chutzpah_ , reminded him of _him._ He didn't like the reminder of his own mortality.

"Call 911!" he had instructed Donna as Monte Ford charged him after pushing Zach away, and she had, even while crying and carrying on hysterically. He had launched himself from the bed and tackled the younger man, who was admittedly smaller but dressed and wearing square-toed rough-outs to even out the advantages he had, and they'd both ended up worse for wear. He'd gotten a ragged scratch on his chest from the knife before he'd beat Monty's hand to the floor. He pretty much ended up scraped and bruises everywhere, before Donna had run to Zach, who was desperately trying to pull Ford off him, telling him over and over again how sorry she was...for _what_ , he wondered?

Walt finally succeeded in flipping Monte and banged his head against the floor. Well, Monte was out, for how long, unknown, meanwhile his own chest bled and he still crouched naked over Monte's prone body. He looked up into Zach's face, breathing hard. Donna, white-faced but mouth a grim line, stood behind Zach, and she suddenly looked old and tired... Did he look like that, too? Say, to Vic?

By the time Ferg, followed closely by Eammon, arrived, it was all over but the shoutin'. They both ran in guns drawn, but seeing him, chest bleeding, wrapped in a sheet he had grabbed off the bed. putting pressure on his chest wound, kneeling next to a cuffed and unconscious Monte, the Ferg stood-down and looked to him in question, as though, "so, who're the bad guys, here?".

"Cuff her, too," he said, still breathing heavily and staring at Dona with a mixture of profound anger and disappointment, "until we sort this all out."

Sorted out over a few halting confessions and Zach's corroboration, Donna had apparently come on to both patients, professing her love, but intending to use them as mules to fill prescriptions, and then switched gears and abandoned them when they refused. He was still processing it all as he heard Ferg's radio crackle without registering who or what was being said.

"Where's Vic?" he asked suddenly, having expected her to be first on the scene, but knowing that she was not on duty for another few hours. "We should bring her in on this."

The two deputies looked to each other, as though he'd just opened a hornet's nest.

Ferg finally manned up, and went on in his halting way. "She was at the station when the calls came in, pulled rank and, Walt—she went after Browning," he finished in a rush.

"Browning?" he said. "He's out?" and then, "Without backup?" His voice rose with the gorge rose in his throat, the long suppression of his fear for Vic, trying not to show favoritism, suddenly unleashed. "Where's my pants?

Vic's voice filled the air as if on command. "I'm going in at the RedRoad 4 trail head. Send Eammon when he's available. Moretti out."

His veneer of aloofness almost instantly peeled away. He'd felt an irrational anger at Vic, as though responding to the cabin, to _him,_ was no longer her concern, his well-being no longer vital to her. He had never felt that from her before. It stung, but he pushed that down. That she had chosen to go after Browning instead of coming to his aid…her actions might very well reflect her denial of the PTSD and verge on the suicidal. She knew how difficult Browning had been for him to bring in _with_ help.

"Give me that," he'd demanded of Ferg, grabbing for the radio.

Eammon held out his pants. "Here's your pants, Walt." He grabbed at them with his free hand.

"Vic, Vic! Do you hear me? Stand down. I'll be out there in half an hour and we'll go in together." He'd bellowed as loud as he could, but there was no response.

He held his pants in his hand, thinking she should have heard him, but realization dawned as he looked down at them. If she'd heard Eammon mention over the radio that he wasn't wearing them, well, s _hit._ He'd bet she wouldn't respond at all after hearing _that._

Ferg brought him back to reality. "Walt, EMTs will be here soon, but let's see if we can slow your bleeding, Walt. Together, they got it to slow, and put gauze and tape over it to hold until he could stop for treatment, for, he could not stop, now. He was more than sure Vic was in danger from Browning or some sort of cowardly ambush.

Donna witnessed his transformation from lover to lawman in less than three minutes without a word but lips pressed sullenly together, as he silently dressed, badged and armed up, fetching his spare cuffs. With his enveloping coat, hat cranked down, and an unconscious man at his feet, he was prepared to swear she went white as he cocked his rifle. It was all in a day's business for him, had been for most of his career, but he knew the demons she encountered were more typically the horrors locked inside a person, not daily dealings with cretins manipulating the exterior forces of the world.

In the end, he and Ferg had left Eammon and a newly-deputized Zach to process the crime scene and take Donna in as an accessory. He had decided to let Zach turn evidence as a witness, and get him some medical help. He figured he owed him for following up, breaking the case, alerting them to Ford, and for his own mistake in firing what was essentially a younger, greener version of himself. He could later amend his departmental decisions, after everyone had cooled off.

They'd later found Walker Browning had been released by Monte, to create more trouble for the department. Monte had pretty well succeeded, but who knew they'd made such enemies? He did, and Lucian did. Stanley Keane, Chance and Barlow had been among that select group…

Now, days later, the crime scene tape still hanging at the cabin still repelled him, put him off his feed, reminding him of all things, the FBI investigation into Barlow's death. He had called the FBI himself. He hadn't called Vic. She'd been out of town visiting her family at the time. She'd flown back first thing, but he'd been in only to legally put her in charge, and retreated to his cabin to contemplate. She'd said it hadn't been healthy for him to isolate. Right now, he was pretty sure it was the only thing which had kept him sane.

After leaving Lucian's facility and the unexpected torrent of grief over Branch, things with Vic and things in general at the side of the road, he went to his home-away-from-home, and tossed on the cot at the station.

He sneaked out early morning to beat Ruby's arrival, after changing his shirt to allay suspicion later. He drove over to The CC, Cumberland's "country club prison," so designated because its barbed wire was low and doors not locked, and demanded to see Henry. He desperately needed a touchstone, or someone to tell him what to do.

Henry only two more weeks to serve in the minimum security facility situated just over the County line. He had received the lightest sentence from the Tribal Police for accessory, aiding and abetting a person of interest. Walt suspected Mathias had smoothed the way, possibly with sympathy for someone trying to achieve justice where he could legally not. Henry was cook there, and they liked his cooking so much, the prison warden, called "The Principal," had jokingly asked if he could keep Henry longer, "room and board included."

Henry arrived into the tiny room limping but looking much better. Rez docs must've patched him up. He still regretted having accidentally shot Henry, of all people, fleeing in the dark…keeping his secrets and Hector's assignations had almost cost Henry his life.

"We have five minutes together. What did you need to see me about, Walt, until I resume partaking of the resort facilities, here?"

"When you get out, we'll talk. We need to talk."

"I am not disputing that. My release date is very soon. What brings you here, today?"

"Vic."

"Vic."

"Yep."

"All right," said Henry, "Could you possibly narrow that down a _bit_? We have only four minutes and forty-five seconds."

"Vic. Did you notice any different behavior, recently? Like since the Chance Gilbert thing?"

Henry pursed his lips together. It was a definite thinking position.

"She _was_ at your cabin when I went looking for you, before I located you on your misbegotten mission at the casino airstrip."

He felt himself start. "She was at my cabin?"

"If I remember correctly, wearing eyeshadow and lip gloss, tight jeans, heels, her shirt unbuttoned not unlike yours, and bearing beer."

"She was at my cabin?" He was having trouble absorbing that. She had said _nothing._

"I believe I have established that, and we have three minutes and forty seconds left."

"I think she's having PTSD symptoms, I've seen her clench up and start staring around baseball bats She won't say a word about that, all she says is 'she's fine,' and shuts me down when I offered to talk. Now she won't talk to me at all." He exhaled. "She left a letter of resignation on my desk."

Henry stared at him. " _You_ offered to _talk?"_

"Stop it, smart-ass. I'm worried about her."

"So what have you done about that?"

"Nothing, she kept saying even later that she was fine, and mocked me about my concern."

"Any other signs?"

"Well, she's been in the hospital since the Walker Browning thing and I'm not allowed in her room."

"She went after him?"

"Yep. Vest saved her."

"Two minutes and forty-five seconds. Perhaps you are not keeping close enough tabs on your deputies, or sending them without backup, perhaps it is none of your business, or perhaps all of the above. So, Walt, have you never had a woman tell you she was "fine?"

"Uh…well, sure, I guess Martha used to, especially after she was diagnosed."

"And so you _know_ that means she is _not_ fine, right? Martha was _not_ _fine_."

"Uh…"

"So you learned _nothing._ You do _not_ know…" An exasperated sigh escaped him. "She was telling you without telling you. Think of it as Tells in poker, Walt. If Vic is afraid of baseball bats, but denies it, that is a Tell. It is _her_ Tell. You know what Lucian would call it."

"Lucian?" The response was instant. "Bullet Fever Without Bullets."

Henry's lips were closed, serious, and he was nodding. "One minute. Something like that. And you have ignored it. After all, Branch said he was fine, too. As her boss, did you insist she speak with a professional?"

"No." He could barely speak and could hear his voice very soft. "I offered it, but I didn't force it. I…should have."

Silence hung between them for a few seconds.

"So where is Vic livng these days?" Henry asked politely.

Walt stared at him. "As of this morning, she was still in the hospital. Thank God she was wearing her vest, but she has burns to her chest, especially where some of the shot slightly penetrated. Wood and bone splinters in her left arm. She may be released today, but I'm not on her HIPAA information list. I…am thinking her PTSD may become worse after this. "

"Classic Bullet Fever, then? And you are here, why?"

"Because—she won't talk to me. Her letter of resignation is in my desk drawer. I haven't accepted it, yet. I don't want her to lose her insurance until she's healed."

"All which speak volumes, Walt. If she wishes to leave, who are you to prevent her?"

"Well I'm just trying to protect her, I don't want her to have to pay all that money…" Henry's gaze lowered, and Walt knew it was Henry's B.S. meter working overtime. It had always been that way between them. Henry was calling him on his shit. "I know," Walt finally said, hanging his head.

"Well, there you have it," said Henry. "It is not your decision, it is hers to make. So," he said with a sigh, "are you breaking me out of here, today?"

"TIME," the guard called from behind him, and Walt slid his chair back.

"I'll figure something out." But he wasn't sure how, this time. He had failed both her and Henry, and wasn't sure how he could fix either this time, Vic refusing to see him at the hospital, and Henry once again behind bars. It was like that movie Groundhog Day Cady had liked years ago. Would he continue to make the same bad choices cascading toward each predictable failure?

He couldn't remember for the life of him how Bill Murray had fixed it, but maybe that was it, maybe he needed to revisit the idea of the shrink he had terrorized that one day. He considered that the young man might now be in therapy himself.

Still…

XXX

After his humiliation in front of Henry, he ended up at the Red Pony and had several beers. He hoped it would give Vic time to be released and he could figure out what was going on with her.

Still reasonably sober after spacing his beers out, he found himself pulling in front of Cady's house. He wasn't sure why he was there, although he hoped if Vic had been released that afternoon, she would try to go back home and not work, as Branch had. She still worked nights to his days. It was a pointed reminder that it was a world of his own construct gone all to hell.

He knocked, and to his surprise, Cady answered. He knew she wasn't home much. He had no doubt the days on the Rez were as long and probably even more frustrating than his in law enforcement.

"Dad! What a pleasant surprise! Come on in!" She didn't sound unhappy about it…

He twisted his hat in his hands. "I don't want to disturb you…"

"No," she said, drawing him into the house, "this is good timing, I can't read through one more deposition tonight."

"Okay. Just wondered how you were doing, how Jacob is treating you…"

"Jacob has very little to do with what I'm doing. We're just trying to make sure all past cases are followed up on, and address new needs. Mathias has actually been very forthcoming with the files. I think he wants them solved as much as I do. Can I get you a Rainier?"

He hesitated. He really didn't need another, and still had to drive home.

"Come on, you're off duty, right?"

"Yep. I, just, um, I wondered, um, how Vic's doing. How she is."

To his great unease, her big blue-gray eyes opened wide.

"Vic? How would I know that?"

"Well…I mean, you must have seen her today..."

"Dad…I don't know if I should even tell you this…but Vic hasn't been back here since, uh, a couple days before the attack in your cabin."

"She moved out? Why didn't I know this?"

"Her stuff's still here, but…I…don't know? I'm not her boss, dad, and I'm not your informant, here." He heard the strident note in her voice.

"I—I you're right. I'm just worried about her."

"Well, then, that's two of us, but maybe Eammon knows? I mean, they were, ah, friends a couple of weeks back?"

"Hmmm." He couldn't say more, but the unease had now become a permanent resident. "I'd really appreciate it, Punk, if you could at least let me know if she shows up, that she's safe."

She held his eyes a moment, before acceding.

"I shouldn't. It's between you and Vic. What did you _do_ to her?"

His hubris tried to puff up, but faded in the knowledge of the enormity of their rift.

"Nothing, it's more like, what I _should_ have done," which sounded like an evasion, but was unfortunately pretty close to the hard truth.

It also cemented the brief exchange he'd had with Eammon as they had worked the Walker Browning crime scene. Vic had indeed killed Walker's rifle-toting henchman, so he had quietly pocketed her gun in an evidence bag before he'd scooped her up, and later removed her badge while she'd been sitting out of it at the base of the tree. It had to be carefully investigated, no hints of impropriety or favoritism in a death case.

"Will Vic be okay, Walt?" Eammon had asked, while kneeling by the unmourned body, bagging evidence.

He looked up. "Oh. Yeah, I think so. Still, I never discount GSWs, even with a vest on."

Eammon was looking at him.

"Walt, something you should probably know."

He lowered his eyes to Eammon's in question.

"It was only the once. She wanted to hurt you, and after, told me she'd told you not to rehire me because we were in a 'relationship,' but it was just the once, and I realized almost right away it had nothing to do with me, and _everything_ to do with _you_. I told her to figure herself out before there could be anything else between us, and now I'm absolutely sure it's not me. She hasn't called me again, or visited me over in Cumberland. When I saw you with her here, and carrying her out, I realized, it's you, it was you all along, and I should have seen it, but I didn't right away."

He felt his face frozen in that deer-in-the-headlights/busted expression. How could he possibly talk about squashed-down feelings here in the middle of nowhere processing a crime scene?

In the face of non-response, Eammon apparently lost his nerve. "I just thought you should know," Eammon sighed, and went back to collecting evidence, bagging the deceased's hands and wrapping the gun to preserve the prints.

"Eammon," he said finally, and he looked up. "Thanks. Thanks for being her friend. She needed one when I was…unavailable."

"Sure. If you still need one, and you and Vic are both cool with it, I'm still interested in the deputy position."

"I still am short-handed, especially now, without Vic for a bit, but long-term, too. If you and Vic think you can work together."

"Well, can we talk in a day or two?"

Walt nodded. "Yep, that will do."

Eammon went back to evidence collection, Walt to re-enacting the scenario in his head, and it made him sick. Poor Vic, out here alone, pit one against two, but in the end, she'd gotten them both. He had grudging respect for her determination and will to see it through and take them both down, but she might well have died out there, and that was a possibility he was just not able to face.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I froze, duty and fear and feelings all balled up. I had just left my badge, keys to the truck and letter on Walt's desk. My gun was my own, but in good standing. I was not under investigation, nor had I any obligation here, except…I did.

Ferg stepped up. "I can go—"

And the line on hold popped up. Lucian almost looked frightened after the call.

"That was Janine over at DM, officially notifying us that Walker Browning's escaped."

He had reason to look frightened. He knew it was too many bad guys against too little us. It was the odds we pretended not to see, the ones which only happened rarely, but _anytime_ was too often in a tiny department.

"Browning headed toward Walt's cabin?" I asked, already heading back to Walt's office to retrieve my duty items.

"No," Lucian said. "Witness reported leaving in an old tan Mercury, driving toward the Rez."

Okay, so an automatic WTF escaped me…I try to limit myself when Ruby's there, but Lucian's almost worse. He hates it from a woman. Ruby's seen stuff, but she still flinches at my language. Lucian just puffs up in outrage. Walt's the only one who ever just laughed at it…said once he'd heard worse the first five minutes as a raw recruit at Boot Camp, on of his rare references to his tour of duty in the Marines. I would almost die to see those pictures.

And it hit me. I couldn't respond to Walt. I might shoot him myself, or by mistake. Or in my frame of mind, _not_ by mistake. I wasn't sure of myself anymore.

I took advantage of my Undersheriff presence, unused since Walt's self-proscribed exile, to organize our response to the crisis. "Ferg, head to Walt's. You take lead if there's a crime scene. Eammon should be in shortly, we'll radio him in to be your backup. I'll head over to the Rez. Maybe I can get Mathias to help."

"Yeah, right," said Ferg, already yanking out vests, with the skepticism I felt, but I couldn't let Browning terrorize anyone again. "You need backup, too, Vic."

"I can go," said Lucian. "I'll call Ruby and ask her to come back. This is a real situation."

"Lucian," I said, because he actually _might_ be a help, but probably couldn't keep up with me over the terrain I'd be covering, "You know I can't deputize you. Only Walt can."

"That guy is bad news, Vic," said Ferg. "Sheriff was lucky to get off a shot to disable him…He might be slower now, but worse wounded, like an animal."

"If I locate him, I'll call it in," I reassured him. "By that time, Eammon should be finished up there and can find me," I reasoned, as he handed me my vest. I didn't put it on, but would. I knew all too well how dangerous Browning was. I'd seen dozens of Brownings in Philly. They were mostly gangbangers, there.

If I'd known where he was, I would have sent Henry out to Walt's cabin with the Ferg and taken Eammon had that had been an option. Henry would have known what to do there. No one ever talked about his prowess with weapons, but he had been deputized a number of times over the years. I had heard rumors about a tomahawk, among other things.

Mathias replied as I expected, but at least I had tried. On the radio, Mathias was at least consistent. "I have no jurisdiction over a white dude, Philly, you know that."

I knew that. "I know, but if anyone sights him, can you radio me?"

I could hear him think, maybe pressing his lips together as made his executive decision. "I believe we could do that for you. We don't want him here anymore than you do."

"Thanks.

The truck and I flew to the Rez, but the chatter tried to stop my heart. Ferg, panicked, Walt wrestling with an intruder, protecting Dr. Monaghan in the bedroom. _They had been in the bedroom together._

I tried to ignore the life being sucked out of me, and the desire to respond as backup after all, but Ferg called in saying the situation had been handled "with an assist from Zach?"—of all people!—they had the suspect apprehended and cuffed, on the way to the hospital. _Where Walker Browning should have been, too…who had helped him escape?_

Mathias broke in, just as I heard an ambulance headed to the cabin was turned back. I heaved a sigh of relief at that.

"Your suspect has been spotted in an old tan car driving down Warlance Road past the convenience store. Sketchy enough, but…

I keyed the mike. "Ferg, I'm at the Rez near the spot where Browning was spotted past the convenience store on Warlance Road. Can Eammon break away to follow me in as back up while you and Zach process the crime scene?"

In the background, I heard what sounded like Eammon saying, "Sheriff, here are your pants."

 _Shit._ My heart plummeted from where it had been. They'd been naked together in the bedroom…well, it may not have been the first time. What had I expected after telling him about me and Eammon like that?

I passed the convenience store and soon after saw tracks veering off the road on a dirt trail up into the scrub.

"I'm going in at the RedRoad 4 trail head. Moretti out."

As I hung the mike back up, I could hear Walt in the background, shouting, "Give me that. Vic, Vic! Do you hear me? Stand down. I'll be out there in half an hour and we'll go in together."

Fuck that, fuck him. That's what partners would do. Not cheaters. We were both cheaters, and we both knew that. We couldn't trust each other anymore, so we couldn't partner anymore. Simple as that. I didn't want to be the one to freeze up and not pull the trigger, the most likely scenario here for Toxic Vic to notch the next death on her bedpost.

I was out of the car and up the path at a trot in a minute, hauling on my vest, scouting likely locations where any ambushes might originate. A few hundred feet up, the tracks stopped, and a tan Mercury per the description sat there. I approached it cautiously, but it was empty, keys gone, doors closed.

I kept moving. Sitting duck? Maybe, but I kept an erratic path and once in the brush used some of the tricks Henry and Walt had taught me over the years. Nothing, so I kept moving as quietly as possible. I didn't have Henry's natural stealth, but neither was I a moose. It took me a while to get up the incline.

I rounded the first bend, hanging to the trees, and got a glimpse of metal, before I dived for cover. The report from the weapon…I estimated it to be a rifle or shotgun…was nothing more than a tiny crack, more of a pop, from distance, but I was fortunate not to be hit.

I heard brush from another direction, thinking it couldn't possibly be any kind of backup for me—and went flying avoiding a volley of reports smashing into the tree next to me.

 _Shit. Two_ of the cocksuckers?The vest had save me from most of the inevitable splinters…a shotgun blast, there was only a little blood, from my left arm somewhere, I could deal with that, but the arm was almost numb. From behind the tree, I saw that the guy who'd emerged a few feet to the right of me was none other than Walker Browning with some sort of a handgun, looked like a Glock similar to mine. The shotgun still glinted from a distance.

"Not you again, bitch! Now you'll get a taste of the Rez!"

Walker fired again, but didn't nick the tree, not a real good shot, maybe, and concentrating, I popped off two. He went down easy, not wearing a vest. He could afford hubris when on the Rez, I guessed, but I was not taking any chances whether he was down and out, or playing dead. Like a wounded bull, he tried to stand as I charged him, and when I connected I kicked him where it hurt just like my brothers had taught me eons ago as a twelve year old in Philly. He screamed and dropped his gun. Who knew a burly man like that could squeal like a girl?

I got his gun, his hand in a wristlock and flipped him, even as he moaned and covered his genitals with his other hand. I cuffed the available one, then yanked the other away from the genitals so it could join its friend in bracelets. He was still making mewling distress sounds. I grabbed zip-ties from my pocket (I had learned well from Walt, whose capacious pockets were always filled with surprises) and secured his ankles.

 _Yeah, yeah, try and get away now, you scumbag! Anybody try and I'll take them down, too!_

He had switched to words. The language was impressive, and my subconscious took lessons even as I worked.

I stood, a little wobbly because my left arm hurt like a sonafabitch, and forced myself through the opening in the trees nearer to where a familiar figure was still standing, no doubt trying to ascertain the outcome of our little scuffle. It was indeed our jailbird, who had taunted us repeatedly. When he saw it was me who had prevailed, he raised the shotgun to fire.

My hand automatically responded, even as I went down, gasping like a fish. The rifle reports stopped, but so had I. Time stopped. All I heard were the birds tentatively resuming song in the branches, and Walker Browning moaning to himself behind the stand of trees.

Then, it seemed like ages later, I heard as if from a distance, "Over here, Walt!" I kind of remember the next few minutes as a kind of chaos, but I took comfort as I recognized the familiar securing of the perimeter and comforting triage of the injured.

"Get an ambulance to the trailhead, Ferg." It was Walt, wearing one of the green vests I had forced him to wear on the Branch hunt. Ferg must have forced the issue, good man. In a moment of trivial clarity, I observed that at least Walt had clothes on at this point.

"Eammon has the radio."

"Now!"

He scooped me up and was striding along with me. The pain was unimaginable. I knew the vest had saved me, but there was blood on Walt's shirt where his coat was open. I saw gauze there, so it must not be my blood—yet.

"I'll get blood on you." "I tried to struggle, but it hurt and I saw stars. Then I remembered the pants comment over the radio and tried again, with more heat. "Don't touch me with those dirty Donna hands, you sonafabitch. Put me down, I can walk."

" _No."_

It wasn't that I minded being carried, it was that I didn't want to be carried by _him,_ when I knew where those hands had been…

"Put me down!" I hated when my voice rose. I had much better luck with cretins using my lower registers.

" _No."_

" _Shithead!"_

The jostling had its effect, and I thought it must've been a relief for him. I stopped talking, biting my lip against the pain, and I kind of faded away for a bit.

I remember the ambulance had not arrived yet when we got down there. I heard later it had dropped Monte Ford at DM and then raced on up to us. Walt deposited me at the base of a pine, only breathing a little harder than usual, but Ferg had been winded just trotting behind him.

 _Gotta get that youngster in a training program_ , I thought in one of those lightheaded moments you get, before I remembered I didn't work at ASD anymore.

Then, I'm a little fuzzy on this, but I swear he kneeled beside me on one knee, kissed my forehead and caressed my cheek.

"Wake up, Vic. The ambulance is here. You're gonna be fine." He turned his head to Ferg. "Ride with her. Try to keep her awake. After they've got her safe, you head back to the cabin to finish the crime scene."

And he was gone back up the path. I know, I had supplied him with yet another crime scene to secure, this time with Eammon.

It hurt a lot. I wasn't sure how long I could endure it. I faded out again, until roused as the EMTs as they began to poke me for an IV, and performing triage. Ferg was sitting anxiously by the rear door.

"Ferg. go back. Assist Walt. He needs you. I'm fine. Go."

"Eammon's with him, and Walt told me to stay with you." I had done what Walt wanted before, and he always seemed to get hurt when I did.

"That's true, but those were his orders." The Ferg looked distinctly uncomfortable.

 _Had I said that aloud?_

"No, _you_ , Ferg. He was a victim today, too. Don't let him start thinking. I'm refusing to have you ride with me. Nothing personal. Go back and help him, then do the cabin."

"You sure?"

"Why're you still here, Ferg?" I heard my voice go lower, knew it was a Walt-ism, but I was becoming breathless, and didn't have much more to offer.

He began to back out of the ambulance.

"Walker Browning?" I croaked.

"Him, and his little friend, too, Vic. You got 'em both."

"Alive?"

No answer. Hmmm…maybe I _should_ have put my gun on Walt's desk and left the office earlier that evening.

At the hospital, they did a bunch of tests and more assessments before surgery to remove a few stray splinters and a couple of bone fragments from my humerus. I didn't think it was humorous at all until they gave me the first shot, after which I thought everything was _very_ humorous.

I remember lying on the gurney, Walt striding up looking as grim as I'd ever seen him. His face swam into my vision, de-blurred a little.

The drugs tried to let me smile. "I told Ferg not to let you start thinking. I wagged the finger that didn't have the oxygen monitor on it in his face. Stop thinking!"

"Just hang on, Vic. You're gonna be fine."

I began to laugh. Must be happy juice they gave me.

I heard a sing-song voice, reciting. "I see Paris, I see France, I heard Eam give Walt his pants…"

I was out.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I write here for reviews. They are my motivation for continuing existing and future stories, so please let me know if I'm doing or writing anything you like or just can't stomach. I am here to read your opinions, and hopefully, to entertain. This looks like it will be 9 chapters, now. BTW, I am having fun over on the FB closed Vic-Wic group. WIC shippers welcome! Over on FB, just message moderator for an invitation!_

Chapter 5

While Vic remained in the hospital and refused his company, he made sure someone checked in with her frequently, or sat with her while she was asleep. He acknowledged that _especially_ right now she was far easier to take when asleep. He had sat with her himself earlier that morning after she had drifted off, then quietly stole away as she stirred.

She stole his heart even when she wasn't trying, and now, he felt particularly chastened by trying to keep the department running at her expense. She had been in charge while he read and woodworked, although God knew he had needed a vacation. She had taken everything in stride, even announced she would lie for him. He knew she had loved him. He only hoped he had not so sufficiently screwed things up that he couldn't put them right. With her, he knew it might take a long while, or _never_. Her resignation letter burned like a coal in his desk drawer.

While she healed, he took the time to try and regroup at his station, and hopefully restore some semblance of sanity. After lunch he requested Zach in to the office. He was in his authority chair to give a measure of professionalism.

Zach walked in almost tentatively. He didn't blame the younger man. He had been out of line firing him so pre-emptively.

"You probably saved both Donna's and my lives. We both owe you one, and your willingness to deputize for the county." He didn't actually say, _thank you._ That was one of Henry's simple specialties, not one which came to him easily.

Zach looked down, as though he was examining the floor and found it wanting. "Once I figured out something wasn't right with Monte, I couldn't just let him wander, especially after he armed up. That wall in the hotel…"

"Yep," Walt agreed, his lips pushed together. It was a wall of as resplendent terror as any serial killer's he had ever read about or encountered in his entire law enforcement career.

"Poor guy, just another veteran she compromised but refused to diagnose because he refused to help her steal meds. I wasn't a veteran, but I think she felt sorry for me, for losing my brother. That may have been the difference, but I wasn't comfortable with it. Or her."

"The whole thing is a tragedy," Walt acknowledged. His profound disappointment with Donna lay buried further down. Martha, she was not. He would let the District Attorney and AMA have their way with her future. She still had not called him, and he realized that he no longer really cared. His deputy had almost lost her life because Vic had directed her backup to the cabin. He wasn't willing to address it as a poor decision made for the wrong reasons, yet.

"Well, thanks for letting me help out, and glad it turned out okay for you." Zach turned to go.

"Zach, we can't have incidents of aggression right now."

He turned back. "I get it, I get it, thanks anyway for giving me the opportunity. I…felt at _home_ , here."

"If you're available, you can _have_ that home here given the complications and increased service needs from the casino. You will _have_ to attend counseling, however. Dr. Monaghan was right about one thing, she did give us a good reference who checked out for treating PTSD-related aggression. The assault with you and your brother was not your fault, but any future actions will be, if we don't get them headed off, tai-chi or not."

"She thought you were aggressive?" he asked, his forehead creasing.

"No, not me," Walt said with a chuckle, for neither Zach nor Donna were aware of his dark temper, but had seem to hone in on Vic without provocation, "and she was right, but wrong, too."

The creases on Zach's forehead did not disappear. "Sheriff…"

He didn't blame Zach if he were confused by that.

"So—return to work Monday morning, see Ruby about the paperwork, and the Ferg and I will have a duty roster complete with a therapy sessions twice a week for the near future…if you're game."

"I'm…I'm game. I don't know what to say."

Walt felt the younger man's awkward shyness as though it was his own. Hell, it _was_ his own, thirty years ago…He let his gaze settle on the younger man. "For this department, this past few months has been about second chances, and it seems like a couple of us given them have pretty much blown them away." He looked up, met Zach's questioning eyes. "I hope we can all do better. After all, that's the most anyone can ask."

"Sure, I'll be here Monday. Um, when does Vic return?"

He forced himself to smile. It came out a grimace. "Not sure yet."

"And is Eamonn going permanent?"

"Again, not sure. I'm bringing Vic in on that one."

"Oh. Okay, Sheriff, I sure appreciate this."

"Don't make me regret it."

Walt stuck out his hand, and Zach took it. Walt had the odd feeling he was looking at himself thirty years back, when Lucian had conducted the job interview in the Euskadi bar…not much had changed with the retired sheriff since then, and evidently, he hadn't changed much, either.

XXX

Later that afternoon, Ferg walked in to his office, his mouth in a pucker. He didn't need more to know that it was bad.

"What is it, Ferg?" he asked, expecting a set-back in one of the Browning or other cases, or equally serious news.

"What did you do to Vic, Walt? I mean, was it Dr. Monaghan?"

He took a quick breath. "What makes you think I did anything to Vic?"

"She won't let anyone from the department sit with her, including me, and says she's leaving as soon as they release her from the hospital. Anyway…" he turned on his heel to leave, giving up. Message sent.

Walt pushed his lips in. He couldn't leave it like that. "I'll take care of it. Oh, and Ferg—" he paused as the younger man turned back to him, "—you did right, with Zach. He said you tried to stop him. Why didn't _you_ tell me that?"

"I don't know," said Ferg. "I tried, but you didn't want to hear anything from me."

"Okay." He suddenly realized that the same could be said for him with Vic.

Ferg persisted. "And about Vic?"

He took another breath. "I'll take care of it." Ferg nodded and left, apparently mollified.

He had no confidence he could allay Ferg's concerns, but wished he could have dismissed the County Board or his own attorney with such impunity. That he even _needed_ an attorney was difficult enough.

The County Board had been much more difficult to appease when the Wrongful Death suit came against the department. Headed by the mayor, but populated by one judge, one district attorney, one Chamber of Commerce member, it was pretty much the only thing which could control actions. They regarded the Wrongful Death suit as a stain against their community _and_ possibly a liability in the end costing them a pretty penny.

"You should consider consulting legal representation," suggested the Judge, when apprised of the Wrongful Death suit. Those were words which made his heart run cold.

XXX

Jim Bishop came from behind his desk to shake Walt's hand. He removed his hat and sat across from Jim. He tried not to squirm. No matter how inviting the office, he would always be uncomfortable in the client chair.

"It's not that I'm not glad to see you, but not glad to see you here for this," said Jim.

He was a smaller man with a slight build and thinning graying hair, but the tenacity of a bulldog. Walt had reason to know, years back when Jim had been a prosecutor, he had helped him out on countless cases. Fortunately, as sheriff, he had never caught Jim's prosecutorial eye and had pretty much walked the straight and narrow until after Martha died, so he hadn't needed Jim for much but deeds and the like. Well, he might be making up for that, now.

"So, I have not yet been able to ascertain who has standing in this case, the identity is being protected. My sense of it is, they are using corporations which had financial transactions to create this case. If they were damaged by Barlow's death, they still want their money. If that is the basis, the case will likely be dismissed, because corporations do not have standing."

Walt tipped his head. "Barlow said something about me having all the land and not letting them develop it before he died. It's like he's after me from beyond the grave."

"That would be unique, him setting up the suit himself before he died. But who would be his next of kin?"

Walt pressed his lips together. "The only one I know is Lucian Connally, but I don't think he would do this to me. I suppose there could be someone else."

Jim said, "I've been Lucian's attorney for a good while, and I would agree with your assessment, although he was not an inheritor to Barlow's fortune…the probate is taking forever, but he was not mentioned anywhere in the will. It is a very…bizarre will. Mind you," he said, adjusting his glasses, "I'm not telling you what's _in_ it, only what's _not._ "

"I don't think he's doing this, unless someone has put his name on the documents, like on his behalf, or something."

"Well. Whoever is doing this, we can't give them fuel, or it might tip the balance and allow to suit to move forward, and cost both the county and you plenty of money until it can all be sorted out."

This was it. This was what he'd been afraid of since he'd been served the paperwork. He waited to be told he would have to pull his punches until the suit was past. He was not disappointed.

"Here's the strategy: keep your nose clean, and see to your department. No bar fights, no sex scandals, no heavy drinking, drugs, aggression on the job, no questionable co-horts, you know the drill."

So that was that. He sighed, his lips smacked in resignation. "I already do that, and I'll speak to the rest of the department."

"Good," Jim said firmly, and stood up. They shook hands again. "At least until we get more paperwork, or see what they present at the hearing, that will have to do. I'll have Mary see you out."

"No need," said Walt, standing with him, already trying to figure out how to reconcile his personal feelings with the needs of the near-future.

That had been almost two months, now. In the duration, he had dreamed of Martha with Donna's face, had begun to tentatively unload some of the baggage overburdening him, and then at the cabin had approached the Donna he thought of as a safe and comforting Martha, where all hell had suddenly broken loose.

The hell which had broken loose was now marginally contained, but at what expense? What to do now?

He sighed. The weight of the world which had temporarily lifted at Henry's release and Barlow's death was now back in full force, and he no longer could use Donna to absorb it. He was really sorry that heavy drinking was off the menu for the near future.

And what was he to do if Vic left the department? He was afraid if she left he'd have to keep Eamonn on more than a temporary basis, but that would just make his heart ache with loss every day. He wasn't sure he could survive that on top of everything else. In his heart he knew it would probably be better for her to go, he could offer her nothing, literally _nothing,_ if for some reason he lost the suit.

All he would have left was his very beat-up self and bruised heart, and she could do far better in a city with a real police force where she could utilize all her skills. The bench was also far deeper, there, and he was pretty certain she would eventually want a man again. In his heart, he knew she longed to be loved and accepted, and he had completely failed to let her know that he felt either of those for her.

He had been alternately elated and terrified she wanted _him_ after she'd signed her divorce papers, but after Branch's death, he had endured the sudden epiphany that he could no longer risk hers, which might be a loss worse for him even than Martha's. After his visit with Jim, it was more than that, because Vic was law enforcement, employee and younger, all which would fan the flames flouting the rules of perception in Durant, Wyoming. He had to play within the boundaries, and apparently, it seemed, keep to himself, not even sneaking peeks at pictures on Ruby's computer, anymore.

What a catastrophic mistake Donna had been, his one tentative foray since Lizzie. She had, for a few minutes, made him feel like a man, but now, he felt more than ever like he had just after Martha's death, and then to a much less extent after Lizzie, a pariah doomed to wander the rest of his life alone.

Unfortunately, although he played nice, now, his feelings had not changed. Donna had merely been a palliative toward healing, but he had chosen so wrong, even in that. He didn't need a second chance, he needed _one_ chance…but Vic's choice of future was still unknown…


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 _ **A/N: I PM'd an early version of this chapter to a couple of folks for their delicate enjoyment. I hope the rest of you enjoy it in this current incarnation. Might this be—virtual revenge?—on a room full of writers who played Debby Downer for Season 4, transforming it into a dark, gloomy, overcast season of violence and unresolved and poorly threaded storylines. This is a chapter saying, "Take THAT!"**_

The world swam into view. Walt, face craggy with exhaustion, leaning over me, my hand enveloped by his massive one. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't withdraw my hand, not just yet. It felt too good, if too good to be true, possibly not real but some really good, really great drug-induced dream.

The past grabbed and held me hostage, the disappointment, the disgust. His apparent concern must be for a deputy down, not for me. Not anymore. The hug, the hospital, was as fuzzy as the world around me was right now.

I withdrew the hand, not gently.

"You're here for my statement, then." I made it a statement, not a question. I felt foggy. I tried to de-fog without much success.

"Statement can wait," he said gruffly, as though he hadn't been using his voice for a while. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit. Go." When had my voice become so hoarse?

"Vic…"

"You have to leave. You're not on my HIPAA list. Come back later when you need my statement."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Vic…"

I began to push the nurse button, really the only defense I had at the moment, prepared to yell NINE if they asked how bad the pain was, but the shame of it was, it was not in my arm or the burn areas on my chest, it was deeper inside. The Hidden Terror of Absaroka County grabbed his hat off the end of the bed and retreated.

The Former Terror was in force.

They medded me and I swam back out. Breaching the shore was just too terrifying to deal with at that moment.

When I swam back in, no one was there. All right then. The Terror ruled.

I was premature. About five minutes later a nurse sailed in and after determining I was at about a four, let me pass on the meds. I knew guys who had gotten hooked after one injury, and I was _not_ gonna do that. She helped me pee. A couple of minutes after the nurse reopened the door, Walt filled its frame. His hat came off and he twisted it in his hands as the nurse left.

"So _now_ you're ready for my statement."

"Vic, don't do this."

"The doctors will notify you when they release me, just like everybody else." And then I remembered the letter on his desk.

"You _did_ get the letter I left?"

His expression became grimmer. "I won't accept it for that date, Vic. This is a county-paid injury. You don't want to have to pay those hospital bills. There will probably be lost wages as well."

"There you have it. Those things. As soon as the doctor releases me, you release me from the county, so I can move on."

I could feel it, the hurt emanating from him, but I pushed it aside, because this was _not all about him!_

"Whatever the doc orders, Vic. Therapy for the arm, probably physical, OT, counseling. Then I can sign off."

Fuck _that_. I finished him off. "You can try to weasel out of it, but _my_ personal life is none of your business since I'm no longer your deputy, plenty of time to attend to Dr. Monaghan as you should. I know you, the last couple of days have been focused on these two cases, haven't they? Have you even _called_ her?"

"Of course it's been about the cases…the Zoloft ring, the reverse-transference…and Vic, I won't be calling her, again."

I'm not all that into that transference mumbo-jumbo," I said, the pain level beginning to rise into the vicinity of a _six,_ and some of it was heartache. Somewhere during the last med cycle while I was still foggy, I had tried to tell the nurse "It's my heart," once, but that had elicited panic and an EKG. I didn't want to express it like that again, even though it was the truth.

"Heart better, now?" he asked as though he had heard me thinking, and I thought I heard real concern behind it. "The nurse said it hurt." I wanted to laugh. I was about to cry.

"I'll do," I said. I'd heard that somewhere, and it expressed it fine. If they'd just take the IVs off I'd go…where? I hadn't said anything to Omar, nor had I done more than leave Cady a note with $500 in it, hoping that would help her as she had certainly helped put a roof over my head.

No, I'd have to go back to Cady's, at least for a day or two. I might need to equilibrate though, spend a night at the station first, catching up and sleeping there, before I could muster enough courage to stay with Walt's daughter again.

XXX

The Ferg didn't want to take me. I insisted. I wasn't cleared to drive, so I bummed a ride with him, but commandeered the address. On the way, I asked him about the Browning investigation.

"Browning will recover. He's at Tri-County. The other guy won't—you'll be investigated but exonerated, Vic. There's not even jurisdiction issues…they wanted him gone, too. There's no question."

"Well, I wondered. No one has taken my statement, yet."

"I think Walt's waiting for you to return to light duty to take care of that."

"Yeah, well…that might not happen, but I still need to see Lucian. Tonight."

"Wait—what might not happen? Wait—you're just out of the hospital, and you want to visit _Lucian_?" he asked, his voice rising in disbelief the way it did. It was comforting to be in his presence once again, and not in a sick-room.

"Just shut up and drive." I felt a hint of apology, this wasn't Ferg's fault, so I lightly punched him on the shoulder with my good hand. "Oh, Ferg, I can't tell you how great it is to be out of that place. Be thankful I'm in such a good mood!

He snorted, as well he ought.

Lucian was much more apprehensive. He seemed well into a bottle of Pappy's.

"Your boss was here last night, and feeling a little blue, I think. Even Pappy's couldn't fix what ailed him."

"He's not my boss."

I enjoyed seeing the white brows rise right up to what was left of his hairline.

"Is that _so_?"

He proceeded to fetch a presumably clean glass from below the little table set next to him, and filled it with amber liquid, putting it before me.

"Shouldn't, I'm on meds."

"That much will just make them work better."

I accepted the shot and downed it in a gulp.

Lucian winced visibly. "That stuff is sip and _savor,_ Moretti, not chug and forget."

"Yeah, well tonight is not about _savoring_ , and I'm not real sure what I should be doing, right now."

He took another sip, before offering, "Well, sometimes it's best to leap quick and not look, but other times, you really should stop and look."

I blinked.

"Let Walt help you get situated, sounds like he owes that much to you."

I couldn't help it, my mouth twisted.

"What?" Lucian said, taking another sip of amber liquid.

"You're right. Pappy's makes it at least _feel_ like that makes sense."

"Have some more," offered Lucian, so of course I accepted such a kind offer.

"It must be working. I haven't noticed you looking at my boobs once."

"Sneak peeks, Moretti, making do. Drink up."

After I wobbled back to the Fergmobile, my driver pulled over and stopped at the side of the road maybe a mile away from Lucian's Snowy Vista _facility_.

"Look, I can smell the whiskey from here, Vic, so I'm pretty sure Lucian dosed you on top of meds, but there's something about Walt you need to know."

"Fuck!" I wasn't about to hear some lame defense of the Walt of the last few months. I could fix that, fast, by leaving, but Ferg gripped my wrist and it was my bad arm. It hit nerve centers all the way up.

"Ow!"

But he didn't release me. He wasn't hurting, just holding.

"Dr. Monaghan was, er— _screwing—_ patients and then writing them prescriptions they then brought back to her. They were mules." He abruptly released my wrist.

I tried to concentrate on breathing, taking that in. Succinct. Damning.

"Fuck!" The alcohol made me slow on the uptake, but mercifully also numbed the pain in my bad arm. "So, where is she now?" I might need to have words with her for taking advantage of him. The bitch! Wait, had I said the thing about words out loud?

He verified my worst fear. "Stay away from her, Vic. You're in no shape, and she's out on bail."

"No shit?"

"Wish we'd been able to keep her in, I think she really did a number on Walt. If I could see it, he certainly did, she reminds me of Martha, and I think he may have latched onto her because of that. Don't give up on him, Vic. He needs you, no matter what he might say."

"Fuck!" With the whiskey on top of the meds, I suddenly thought I might throw up in the not distant future. "Just…take me back to the station. Please." Then I thought of the one thing no one had told me, yet. I could live without knowing most of it, but that one thing…

Ferg sighed and the Trans Am resumed idling.

"So Walt has my gun and badge?"

"In his drawer, but they'll exonerate you, Vic, you just need to give them your statement."

"And I killed the fucker with the shotgun.""

"Yep."

"Fuck, just the one, I hoped I'd killed them both and saved the state the money."

He seemed genuinely appalled by that, but by then, it was definitely the whiskey talking.

XXX

The morning after I was released from the hospital, despite being slightly hung over from Lucian's offerings, I got up and walked to the park from Cady's. Although still sore, that it didn't prevent the rest of my laundry from being dirty, and I wasn't prepared to face it, yet.

I would have slept on the cot at the station the night before, because of course, irrationally, I couldn't sleep again in the bed where I'd been with Eamonn until I washed the sheets, but _someone's_ very tall, lanky form was snoring on the cot. I elected not to try the couch, I preferred no interaction with him at all. After returning to Cady's and arming myself with meds, I took a nap on her sofa while the sheets washed during the night.

Later that afternoon, while the last of my laundry including my uniform shirts were agitating in the washer, I heard a knocking sound I hoped wasn't the washer. I tried to ignore it, finally getting to the good part of one of the books Walt had offered me when I'd long ago been at his cabin, The Red Pony. I admit, I was struggling through it because John Steinbeck had to be _The_ most depressing writer _ever_ , but besides my iPod, it was what I had at Cady's house. Like her dad, she didn't have a television. Like father, like daughter.

The knocking persisted, close, and I realized it was at the front door. Maybe Cady had stepped out for a bit. I tossed the book aside and walked the few steps from my room to the door. It was Walt. All in one moment my stomach dropped out, but I sighed, probably rolled my eyes in disgust, as I cracked the door open.

"I'm still on medical leave today, didn't Ruby tell you?"

"Yep."

Absorbing that, I added, "Well, all my uniform shirts are in the wash, so I'm not really available to help you out, Walt," I said, figuring he had a call he needed help with and nobody available. Sick days were not really _as promised_ in Durant because of our limited staff, especially now with the casino. I started to shut the door. He stuck one of those 13Ds in and wedged it in a little.

"Not asking you to. I know you're on medical leave. Wondered if you'd consider…if you'd like to have dinner with me at the Pony. I'll buy."

"Dinner." Nothing could have thrown me more for a loop than that. After rejecting my tentative suggestion to get a burger months ago, and Mr. "My personal life is none of your business…" I couldn't let him get by with that, not after the flagrante delicto scenario I'd puzzled together from the scanner chatter, with Dr. Donna's shrieks replaying in my head as I hunted down Walker Browning. Ferg had more or less confirmed that suspicion, even if Dr. Donna was now a _persona non gratis_.

"Gee, that would be tough to choreograph, Walt, since my uniforms are wet and your personal life is none of my business." I tried shoving the door shut again, but his foot was still there, and I really didn't want to ruin Cady's door.

"Hey, what's up?" Cady breezed into the room, shutting off her phone. His foot moved backed away incrementally, and I had the urge to slam the door in his face, but it was Cady's place and Cady's dad, and of course my _boss_ , at least temporarily, so I didn't.

"Hey, Punk. Maybe you could join us for dinner at the Pony?"

Her head canted and one eyebrow went up. "Us? You mean you and Vic are on duty?—wait, aren't you still off tonight, Vic? Just out of the hospital?"

"Yeah, I'm off. Healing. Reading. Doing my wash."

"Isn't this way last-minute? I'm working on the Little Thunder case this evening."

"No," I said, twisting the knife, "he really means you and him. My plans tonight include _reading_ The Red Pony, not eating there."

The look on his face was priceless.

"You're _reading_ it?" I could hear the disbelief in his voice. I wanted to punch him, and it was not the first time.

"Yeah—and Cady's busy, so—buzz off!" I re-thought my good intentions and slammed the door in his surprised face.

Cady did kind of a double take. "Things not good between you and my dad?"

"Bad enough that I didn't let him visit me in the hospital. We've been working different shifts, we can't even keep it professional tonight because my uniforms are in the wash, and he's made it clear he doesn't want to cross any work-to-social boundaries. He's also made it clear he's under abundant scrutiny at least until the wrongful death thing goes away."

She made what I thought of her a thinking face. "Maybe he just wants to talk. I know, that doesn't sound like him, but he does, sometimes. Honest. He won't admit it, but that home invasion thing really got to him, and before that, David Ridges, Barlow, that Gilbert thing... You know, I asked him about it when he had your boxes in the car, I thought he'd offer you to stay at his place, you had seemed close at the Pony a few months ago, but I realize that wouldn't have worked with Eamonn and all…"

"Yeah, he shouldn't have stuck you with all my boxes _and_ emotional baggage. But all that probably _has_ affected him, and he _should_ be in therapy for it. Luckily, his new girlfriend is a therapist. He shouldn't be sniffing around here."

She gave me a probing look. "His new girlfriend?"

"Yeah, the lady shrink."

"Vic, I don't know what you think you've heard, but…"

"Look, Cady, I know the story, so just leave it. If she's on bail, either let him get his help from her or someone else. I'm out of that little drama." I hadn't actually told Cady I'd resigned, yet. She'd accepted my $500 with the provision that her latchstring was out for as long as I needed it. I took that in the generous spirit offered, but planned to be out ASAP.

"Not arguing that a little therapy might help—like you should probably be getting for all that stuff that happened to you at that Survivalist's? You still having the dreams? When you scream, it gives me the shivers."

 _Shit_ , she must have heard me some night. I wanted to kick something. Bad. I said slowly, "Maybe."

"You know, you two really are two sides of the same coin, neither of you realize how much alike you are."

I stopped at that. "I'm like _Walt_?" I couldn't keep the incredulity from my voice.

"Sure, Henry and I have both noticed your speech patterns and expressions have become similar, you stand alike, started to sort of dress alike with the buttons and such, you both talk shop even when you're off duty, won't talk about your feelings, defer anything you can…that time in the bar, cleaning his face, I really thought…thought maybe there might be something going on between you. I thought maybe if you stayed with him, you two would figure it out."

I looked down at my tank and shorts. While Walt wouldn't wear those, I took ownership for at least some of what she'd said. Apparently others had noticed, too. Maybe even Branch had, with his comment about the _special relationship_. I peeked out the window. Walt was sitting in his truck, apparently on the radio.

"Well, hell."

I stopped briefly in my room, drew a pair of pants over my shorts, opting for running shoes instead of duty boots, because they slid on faster, and grabbed a jacket. It was getting nippy in the evenings. I threw my wallet in my jacket pocket, went out to the passenger side of the truck and knocked on the door. He looked up from where he was making notes on his duty pad in the interior dome light, and I almost thought I saw a lightness cross his face at my appearance. He swung the door open with one of those long arms, and I held onto it and used my right arm on the strap to climb in.

"Ground rules. Separate checks. No drinking. No shop talk. You bring me home early so I can get my laundry finished."

He gave one of those half-grins. "That's _all_ the rules?"

"Those are _my_ fucking rules tonight, take them or leave them."

He started the truck, which I took for assent, and turned and looked at me. His gaze was piercing in the reflection of the dim dash lights.

"I've missed you."

I stared ahead. "I've missed my friend, the guy I thought was my best and only friend in Durant. Cady and Ferg try, but I've missed _him_."

There was the inevitable pause as the _thinkin' before talkin'_ took place. I was used to that pause after years of acclimation. Finally he said, "I'm sorry I let you down, Vic. I thought…I thought, I could protect you if I didn't get close. Save you from me."

"Protect _—save_ me?" The enormity of the crushing blow he had dealt me suddenly struck. Hard. "Wait. Let me out." I started to struggle with the door latch, but he laid a hand on my arm, then immediately let go when he realized it as my bad one, which had protested and made me yelp. After Ferg's well-meaning grip the night before, it really _was_ tender.

He yanked his arm away before he pulled the truck over and put it in Park but let the heat run, thank goodness.

"Hear me out. Just hear me and let's get some dinner."

"No, Walt," I said, trying to override the lock. "I rode with you for _hundreds_ of hours and you couldn't say, or explain _anything_. You left me hanging and _hurting_."

"At least tonight I did better than when I asked Donna out."

I stared at him. He must have thought that was a joke. It was more like stabbing me with a multi-pronged carving fork.

He saw my face and backed down. "I'll take you back, but please, just please hear me out."

"Here, then. No people, no distractions, no burgers. You say what you have to say _here_." I pointed down with my finger.

"I had a talk with my attorney almost two months ago, after the County Board recommended I get therapy. They know crim, even murderers like Barlow and David Ridges sometimes exist in a small town, but David Ridges and Barlow Connally dying so close together, I mean, they _really_ want me to do it, but not court-order it. Quiet. Discreet. My attorney said to keep my nose clean, to keep out of fights, to not give _anything_ that could be used by the Wrongful Death suit attorneys."

"Okay, so I just killed a man and slept with another deputy. Guess I haven't helped, that much. How come I didn't know all this before I screwed it up for you? Oh, right…your personal life is none of my business."

His lips were compressed into a flat line. "I was going to tell you all everything, but things just snowballed here, and we're never in office at the same time, anymore…

"And then there was Donna, had to make time for her, while the rest of us, Zach, Ferg, _me_ …had no _fucking_ idea what was going on…"

"I don't know if that impacted it at all, but the therapy, Vic…"

"Cady and I were just saying in there you should get some. You've been through the wringer."

"I—I already screwed up a therapist once last month, Vic, I'm terrified of it, and them, and I wondered…I wondered…would you go with me, for moral support? Like a partner might?"

I was sure I'd misunderstood again. It was the Rookie Cop thing again, but since the heart was reluctantly involved, said heart kept missing the essentials…

I asked slowly to be sure, "You want _me_ to bolster you at some kind of _couples_ therapy?"

"Partners," he said firmly.

"We're _not_ partners," I whispered, infinitely sad to admit it.

"Maybe not now, but we were, before I mucked things up. Before Branch's death."

"Not really…it was well before then, you don't put a partner in lockdown and go in after Ridges without backup, Walt."

"I know…"

"You don't tell a partner someone _should stay on with her to protect her_ and then ask _her_ later to _stay_ , and not acknowledge she might think more was there." He looked down at his lap, his lips pressed together. Nothing from him. He was not carrying on his end of the conversation.

"I always thought in Arizona you were close to crossing the line, and there, I get it, I was married, but I always thought Branch saved us that time…"

Those dark blue eyes flew up to mine. "Yep, he did," he said, acknowledging that weakness for the first time.

"I was so wrong, Walt," I whispered, "I thought you were my friend, my fucking best friend, my only friend in Durant," hoping he heard the past tense, and the pain from having to admit it. I let him digest that for a minute, trying to regain some measure of composure.

"Omar has offered me work," I said finally, when his response was the norm, and he didn't say or do anything. "I've been thinking about looking into Newett and the casino, as well. But you want me to stay in this…God, Walt, at Cady's it feels almost…it just feels _wrong_."

"It was all I could think of last minute."

"It wasn't your job to think _for_ me."

"I didn't want to turn you out onto the street."

"Or offer me your cabin again," I said bluntly. When you _evict_ a _partner_ , you offer her a place to stay." My lips twisted. "Yeah, Cady told me, she said she'd told you she felt weird having me there, but you more or less forced it on her, and when asked about letting me stay at your place, you said, _nope._ "

There it was, what I had been looking for, waiting for, the Deer in the Headlights look—busted.

"I—"

"Yeah, I know." I cleared my throat and took a deep breath after a minute of silence. "It was because of Donna. Another Lizzie, or worse. So I told Cady I'm only here until I decide where I'm going. A couple of days."

"It wasn't because of Donna."

"Whatever."

"Your uniforms are in the wash."

I gave him the patented WTF look for _that_ disconnect.

"Uniforms are almost done, along with everything else. I'm only missing the one that got shot up by Browning's friend." Yeah, the one they had cut up when they took the vest off me was unsalvageable. "Don't worry, you'll have them back soon, and I'll be out of all the Longmires' hair.

The conversation lagged. His really had lagged the entire time. I waited for him to start the Bronco to take me back. When he didn't, I looked over. He seemed to be struggling with something.

"What if…what if I invite you to stay with me, now? Not as awkward as at Cady's?"

A year ago, I would have jumped into his lap. Now…now, was _different_. _There had been_ _a complication called Donna._

"I believe you set the rules in the alley, which means my private life is none of your fucking business. Besides, three's a crowd."

"Vic, don't—she's not—we're not—I was trying—to _protect_ you…this lawsuit thing is eating me alive. I could lose all my retirement, and my land."

I stopped. He might be right about that. Someone needed to do the work to figure out what mastermind was behind the suit, whether it was Barlow from beyond the grave, the mysterious Branch matron hiding under the veil, or even Lucian, who would have the most standing in court. The county might pay, but it might take his personal wealth as well.

Unfortunately, all that didn't matter, none of it _fucking mattered_. He hadn't said anything to end what never began, just cut me loose before we'd ever even scheduled a date.

"Well, then we'd both be homeless. Fuck. To _save_ me? Hmmmph. Zach said you asked him about George and Lenny. You told him you thought George was protecting Lenny, in a selfless act of love. Are you comparing us to _them_?And, you didn't hire _me_ like that, but you hired your most recent deputy from his opinion of a fucking depressing _book?"_

He tried not to grab me by my wound, but he reached for me. I knew he didn't want to hurt me, but my right arm wasn't available, although it wasn't injured.

"I didn't want to make another mistake, like I did with Branch. I want to prevent that happening. I don't want you to die, Vic. Letting my feelings for deputies get in the way almost cost us both our lives last year. I thought you had learned from my mistake then. Your decision to go after Browning was wrong."

So there it was. Finally out.

I said, very slowly, but my anger pegged the meter before it enveloped me. "I'm no Lenny you had to make decisions for, Walt. I'm _me. Just_ me. I'm not Martha, Donna, or Lizzie, and I'm gonna quote that guy I remember you like, John Donne, for ya. He said _no man or woman is an island, shithead._ Well, maybe I paraphrased that a little."

My anger was in full throttle. He had to feel it, and it exploded as I hauled off and punched him as hard as I had Agent Towson. I would feel it in my hand for days. And then I thought of Lizzie and Donna, invading his cabin and insinuating themselves between us.

" _Shit!"_ I couldn't help it, I punched him again.

This time he had his hand up, deflecting it, and tried to get hold of mine, but I wriggled away, hoping my injuries would make him less aggressive in pursuit.

Hurting him hurt me even worse, but he had provoked me, fuck it, I _couldn't_ let that go. Maybe, shit, maybe it _was_ the PTSD talking…

He looked shocked, red, and already puffing up, nose bleeding, as I unbelted, released the latch, practically threw myself out of the warm Bronco into the chilly night, trotting along the road back to town as fast as my trembling legs would carry me, every jolt reminding me of my injuries, and my right fist vying for my left arm in the hurting department.

" _Shit!"_ I said again.

 _Just fire me and be done with medical leave, therapies, counseling, all of it be damned to hell_ , I thought.

The night swallowed the Bronco lights as I took a shortcut up a hill back to town, and I was pretty sure he did not follow.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

He couldn't believe she had punched him and then disappeared into the dark. He wanted to follow, but he first had to stop his nosebleed. By the time he had contained it, he couldn't find her on the road, or where her tracks left it. He couldn't very well call Henry, who was still incarcerated.

He did the only thing he had left on his list to do that evening, make the assignation he was originally supposed to keep.

Lucian greeted him with a grunt, then peered at his battered face more closely.

"Christ on a stick! Who did that to you?"

"Vic. I deserved it."

"Moretti's work? I gotta give the gal more credit. Impressive," he marveled.

"Yeah."

"So what brings you here? I'm doubting it's the chess."

"I don't know what to do about her."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"She resigned. She won't stay on to attend therapy and let the county pay her medical bills. She's moving out of Cady's and won't tell me where."

"Hmmmm…" the old Sheriff, lips pursed, poked around and pulled out his bottle of Pappy's and two crystal shot glasses. I think we could both use some of this, tonight. Will take some of the pain outta what ails us."

"You always say that."

"And it usually works. Tonight I think it might do more. You look like hell."

"She _punched_ me."

"No, I mean, in general. You showered, slept or eaten lately?"

"That's not the point."

"The hell it's not…that may be why she punched you if you stink as bad as you look. You're still trying to make it all about you."

"What?" He couldn't believe Lucian had suddenly turned on him.

"It really never has been, Walt. For a while and justifiably so, it was about Martha, then about grieving with Cady, then briefly that Lizard gal, then your Doctor Drab. Haven't seen when it's been all about Vic, yet."

"About Vic? This isn't about Vic!"

"The hell it's _not!_ According to my sources, she brought down that escapee while you were flagrante delicto with Doctor D. According to the little I've been privy to, she's been your back and conscience and covered for your butt for over three years without much to show for it. Now you're panicked because she's quitting, and won't go to _your_ therapy. Didn't you tell me once _she_ needed therapy and as boss you didn't order it?"

"Well…" it was tough to acknowledge, and she had certainly short-circuited his tentative attempts to offer it. He had never _ordered_ it, though.

"And you _did_ start to date someone else, _again?"_

That one he could defend. "Vic was married last time."

"What about _this_ time, Walt?"

He put his lips inside his teeth, debating. He finally sighed. "I dreamed of Martha with Donna's face. Donna reminded me of Martha."

"Yeah, she does, a little," said Lucian.

Walt started. "Wait. How do _you_ know what Donna looks like?" He had never shared that dream with anyone—yet. His feeble attempt with Henry had resulted in his _last_ bloody nose.

"Oh, went to see her a few times in Sheridan when I was much younger and she was just starting out. You aren't the only one to _seek counseling_ , son. Turned me down cold, though. Not like she did with the two youngsters storming your castle. Must be feelin' her oats, or her age, for that matter."

He put his throbbing head in his hands. "What should I do, Lucian?"

"You really asking me, or just wanting me to agree with you?"

"Really asking."

The old man took a huge swallow of his Pappy's and cleared his throat.

"Maybe marry her. _If_ she'll have you."

He looked up at his mentor in dismay. Disbelief. Possibly even fear lingered there.

"How do you figure _that_?"

"I figure she's the only one with tits like those who can punch the stupids out of you and keep you in line when you get too big for your britches, so, well, she gets my vote."

It took him a minute to respond to that remarkable statement.

"Lucian, with all the _shit_ going down, the lawsuits, the scrutiny over propriety and policies _stuff…_ Durant _should_ probably can me if I start a relationship with someone my daughter's age…I haven't even started the therapy for the _last_ incident…"

"And what if they _do_? Can your ass, that is?" asked Lucian, sitting a little straighter.

"And then, she's my deputy, she works for me…"

"A minute ago, you said she didn't. Work for you, that is. Make up your mind. And I said, what would you do to have her? Let your ass get canned? Hell, I would. Let her be sheriff for a while, and come home to you at night."

"I don't know, maybe, early retirement or something…"

He fought for ground, but felt it giving way beneath him.

"If you're serious about having her, that is."

"She won't have me. She hates me. We cheated…on each other."

"Happens," said Lucian, pouring another finger neat. "Sometimes, when you love someone so much that you try and let them find something better, they don't see it like that. They try and get your attention any way possible. Sometimes they even love you back in spite of it, anyway and forever—no matter what a dumb shit you are about it."

The turmoil boiling inside him tried to explode. He stood up suddenly, involuntarily. "What makes you think she _loves_ me?"

"Stood by your lunkhead ass for three years. You said she saved your life from the Cartel when she could've stayed out of the fight, covered for you in the Gorski mess, chose _you_ over her husband at the Gilbert thing,and those are just the few I know about,what _more_ does she have to do to show you? Neither one of you says a damned thing to the other, or about the other. When she was here—"

"She was _here_?"

The old man jerked his head, like he suddenly remembered he shouldn't say anything about that. "Yeah. Yesterday. Wanted my advice, _my_ advice!" he hooted. "Since she likes old guys, If I were even _ten_ years younger, I might think of putting _my_ hat in the ring. You're not the only bull in the pasture, after all."

"Lucian, let up, old man," he said, jaw clenching, his nose throbbing to remind him just how many of the _stupids_ had been knocked out of him.

"You _both_ need professional help." He began to laugh loud, as though what he had said was very witty.

Walt turned on his heel and strode out, shaking his head to clear it of the Pappy's.

He was a damned idiot, but if he followed his inclinations, he would most likely have to _throw away the book_ that he had been so precariously clinging to for the last couple of months in hopes of keeping his job. He was terrified he just might lose it all, _including_ Vic, before everything was all over. He saw a long and lonely future with no land, no retirement, and no Vic. It was back to the edge of the abyss all over again.

XXX

It had started raining by the time he once again found himself at Cady's, only to be told that Vic was at the Pony. He had no idea how she'd gotten there, so he drove over in case she needed a ride. He knew she shouldn't be drinking with the meds she was on, and no way was she cleared to drive.

Jess was behind the bar and he gave her a little wave, but he didn't see Vic. When he couldn't find her in any of the main areas, he walked back to the restrooms, and finally out back, where the sharp air was pleasant after the warmth in the bar.

He found her sitting down on the concrete porch, back against the Pony's wall, crying. The rain mingled with and hid her tears, but there was no disguising her distress.

"Oh, Vic," he said, and did what he'd wanted to do since she'd signed those damned divorce papers. He took her good hand and pulled her up and into his arms.

"How _could_ you?!" she sobbed and punched at him. He captured her hands, holding them, but with respect after the earlier reminder of her prowess with them, and equal concern for her injury. "With another _Lizzie_ , of all things…"

Her head fell against his chest, and he could feel she hadn't passed out, but she was shuddering in her grief. The rain had let up for the moment, so he didn't try to whisk them to dryer quarters.

"I haven't seen Donna since she got out on bail," he said honestly.

A pause. "How _much_ bail?"

"I wanted to debrief you , but you wouldn't let me near. Didn't anyone tell you what happened?"

"Fuck it, I had to ask Ferg whether I _killed_ anyone."

"Oh. Well, you wouldn't exactly let anyone sit with you, and we all knew the statement could wait until after you'd healed a little."

"You _evicted and abandoned_ me…"

"Vic…it hurt to say no to Cady. My instinct was to take you and all the boxes to my place, but my place hasn't exactly been healthy for people, lately, and my attorney insisted I keep squeaky clean for a few months, or at least until the WD suit is settled. The first hearing on the Wrongful Death is next week. It may get dismissed. Or it might not…"

"So, you bring Donna to the cabin to stay instead, Donna who you don't know and is a recent suspect in the Zoloft case?" She sniffed, a forlorn sound.

"Not the smartest thing, but I dreamed of her, of her as Martha. She reminded me of Martha. I'm being honest here, sometimes I still just want Martha, Vic. She could somehow make the terrible things better. There have been so many terrible things, recently."

She gave a huge sigh and pushed away in resignation. "And I'm not her, either."

He wondered how much alcohol she had in her system, but refused to let her escape from the circle of his arms.

"Don't you see? I've got to get through that thing intact, or resign under a cloud, Vic."

"And your cabin thing just happened a week ago, so it well may go forward, a pattern of behavior. I know the rules, the bar in a civil case isn't a very high one, to allow it to move forward."

"There's also the fact that the evidence all points to Branch's murder, even if Martha's murder is only self-confessed."

She hiccupped. "There is that."

"Come home with me tonight, if you want. No one's there, and I had Dawn and Cassie clean up once the crime scene was cleared, except I have no front doors on until I rebuild the jamb. I just have the door set in temporarily."

She did not reply to that. Instead, "So Monte loved Dr. Donna?"

"Apparently." He took a deep breath, released her but took her hands again. "From what she and the men said, Donna had enticed both Zach and Monte, and God help me, probably others who haven't come forward, yet, but Zach refused further treatment, left, and hadn't thought more about it.

"He discovered Tai Chi to keep him in his, er, zone. Monte, however, became so deranged with Donna's rejection, that while investigating us for Barlow and seeing her path cross mine, he lost his wits, torched her van and invaded the cabin."

"Shit." Well, that statement did encompass it all.

"Yep. Hell. That's what it's been, Vic. The County Board told me to keep my nose clean, or," he paused, "given my recent choices in unstable deputies…"

She winced at that tone. She had to know her recent behavior in public placed her on that list of deputies, for Branch, Zach and she all fit that description…

"…that they would hold a special election in a couple of months to elect a new sheriff."

She froze. "So, all your jobs are in danger?"

His head jerked. "Except, apparently, Ruby's and Ferg's, but she's already said she'll retire before serving another sheriff, you included, and I don't think they thought of Ferg at all."

Her mouth grew mutinous.

"So, I've _been_ screwing up what you've been trying to keep in place."

"I don't think you would have if I hadn't changed gears and tried to go by the book. I haven't been there for you, Vic. I haven't been there for anyone, Zach and Ferg, included. I think Ferg still misses Branch. He really looked up to him—"

"He was jealous of him too, Walt. Branch had Cady. Ferg seriously crushes on Cady."

He sighed and gave a rueful chuckle. "And I'm out of touch on that, too. My deputies keep falling in love with my daughter."

"Not necessarily. _I_ haven't, and Ferg may get past that. He's growing up, Walt." She grimaced. "But now, you'll have to add a couple for the casino. Who knows then? But Ferg's okay."

"Yes, he did give me a talking-to about how I had mistreated you."

" _Did_ he?" she asked, her face in a silly half-grin which bespoke too much alcohol. "I like how he is turning out…into a damn good deputy, and becoming a friend."

"Just come home with me and we'll sort it out."

"I can't, ya see," she said, the alcohol becoming a little more evident, "I accepted the Casino's offer today. My last day is tomorrow."

The breath he took in caught. No, not so soon, not yet…he needed time. _Buy time_.

"Not until your therapy is complete."

"You just want me to stay for _your_ therapy."

"I just want you to _stay_."

She jerked out of his arms, and whimpered, forgetting her own injuries.

"You said that before, and I still have no fucking idea what that _means_."

"To stay...with me."

"As more than a deputy."

"Yep."

She sighed. The alcohol let her put her head on his chest. It felt so right there…

"I told the Casino—"

"I'll call them, tell them it's a mistake and you're staying."

"But I'm not."

This time, he was speechless. Silence filled the void as it began to rain again.

"But I'm _not_!" she said more loudly into the drops.

"Until I sign off," he said finally, but sadly.

"I don't know…"

"Until I sign off, then their HR can figure it all out."

She sighed. "Okay. Until then."

"Come home with me."

"No. I'm better than that, Walt."

"What about Eamonn?"

"What _about_ him? He actually told me straight up that I had to figure myself out before he and I could become anything more. He's okay, Walt."

"He told me that."

Her eyes got huge. "He…you _talked_?"

"Yep. Cleared the air. He wants to come back, if you can work with him again."

She shrugged in his arms. "Doesn't matter, go ahead and hire him, I won't be there."

He suddenly felt numb and old inside. He had destroyed this, her, them together. To keep his damn job, and hopefully his retirement intact, he hadn't _saved_ her, he'd _sacrificed_ her, and everything that went with it.

"Come on, I'll take you back to Cady's then." He could hear the sadness and resignation in his own voice, and yes, the age. It was a weary-of-the-world and his own stupidity voice.

"No. I'm sleeping at the station."

"What a coincidence, so am I."

"Yeah, I noticed last night."

He inhaled. _She_ had been at the station? He'd told Lucian to call off because he'd be there to answer in the event of any 911s.

"I get why _I'm_ sleeping there, I'm homeless. Why are _you_ sleeping there?"

He looked down, smacked his lips.

He finally said, "I still see the crime scene tape, even in my sleep. I haven't slept at the cabin since it happened."

"And… _who_ needs therapy?"

He couldn't help but think it through, a long pause. In spite of Jim's prohibitions, he reveled holding her, no matter how brief the embrace.

He finally he said softly, "You got me on that one. Both of us, Vic. _Both_ of us."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I very reluctantly agreed to ride with Walt in the Bronco for the first appointment with the therapist, while we were ostensibly on patrol together on a late afternoon. It was almost a month since I'd been released from the hospital. DCI had ruled in my favor on the incident which had put me there, and Walt had released my gun and badge back to me.

While I was still officially on light duty and doing physical and occupational therapy for my sore arm, he had placed me on the day shift, my preferred duty rosters be damned. With Zach working days with me and Eamonn and now his senior, Ferg, working nights, and the junior deputies pulling doubles on the weekends, all the shifts were covered. I figured he was doing the duty rosters like that for a reason.

More often than not, though, Walt resumed taking me along on his various investigations.

As he put it, "You'll need more exposure to the population if you someday want to run this place for the long-run."

That earned him a resounding, "Whatever."

I figured he was still in denial. Neither of us discussed the day he would sign off on the therapies and release me from ASD. I wondered if maybe this upcoming therapy we were attending together would be the place to broach that kind of discussion as well as delving into his psyche.

After reading the Cliff Notes _Of Mice and Men_ in high school, I had finally really read it, my personal version of delving into Walt's psyche, and found it even more disgusting than the last time. Maybe having seen the darkness in people over the last fifteen years was catching up to me, but it only solidified my opinion of Steinbeck. Didn't he know how to write a happy ending?

Ferg had moved up a notch on the office directory, and sometimes I caught him staring at it. It was kind of cute, and not creepy like I'd expected it to be. I think he worked even harder having moved up a notch, no matter how it had happened. He had very generously offered the couch in his bachelor pad to me when he found out I had been bunking at the jail, and I had accepted over three weeks ago. It was a small place, but I was grateful to be out of the Longmire Loop.

Cady's house was once more her own domain, my things stored in the basement of the station's storage room, and Ferg didn't refuse the rent money I threw his way. The morning bathroom schedule wasn't a factor because we usually worked opposing shifts.

Walt was another matter. After I'd sobered up, he suddenly began acting professional again, and despite the fact I asked repeatedly, he adamantly refused to sign off until I completed _all_ the prescribed therapies. I wondered if he'd coerced the doc a little bit to prescribe global therapies to that extent, but I wasn't really that upset…I realized how _much_ I had missed riding with him.

The casino wouldn't wait and hired someone else, but I wasn't as pissed off as I thought I'd be. I could always find something else, and the department had nominally gotten back to something approaching normal.

The station did feel comparatively stuffed if Ruby, Eamonn, Zach, Ferg and I were all in the office at the same time with Walt, like for staff meetings, but that was only a couple of hours a week. I was fine again with Eamonn, but we usually worked different shifts, anyway. I wondered if that was _the_ one reason Walt had done the duty rosters himself.

A couple of weeks ago, Eamonn and I had briefly crossed paths at the Red Pony one evening before his shift and after mine.

"Figure it out yet, Moretti?" he asked with a grin. He was drinking iced tea with his burger. I was on my second beer without food. My arm hurt.

I shrugged.

"I told Walt I knew it was him. I saw it the moment he scooped you up and began carrying you down the hill. You were cussing up a storm at him. That's when I knew."

"Yeah, well…" Eamonn the investigator wasn't wrong, but I wasn't going there. Eamonn the co-worker was firmly back in his proper place, as had been Walt the professional. "He said you talked."

"We did. I just don't get the sense it did anything for you two."

I shrugged again. "It's _Walt,_ Eamonn. Give it time."

In addition to making peace with Eamonn, I'd heard two interesting tidbits in the last few weeks, that Dr. Donna was going to _trial_ for her part in the Zoloft ring, and that her license had been pulled. The AMA was evidently _not_ amused. Good stuff, all around. I still bore the urge to have words with her, but filed it away sort of like it seemed Walt had his animas with Jacob.

Meanwhile, there was something wrong between Walt and Henry. I had asked Walt about Henry once, asking whether things were all right, but big surprise, he deflected and wouldn't talk to me. I had evidently forgotten that his private life was none of my business. Maybe this therapy would also draw him out about that. I was sad he and Henry seemed so distant.

We pulled into back of a parking lot, and did what amounted to sneaking in the back entrance to an unlabeled building. Inside were offices in a row. Walt led me to the back office, well away from the rest of the area.

A young man, younger than me, smiled brightly at us from within. I suddenly felt old and broken. Had I ever _been_ this young?

"Right on time! Please come in and have a seat."

Of course we did, but Walt has his own Tells…the bouncing foot, tapping or twisting the hat, smoothing back his hair, and smacking his lips. He was doing all five before the youngster said a word.

I sat down and waited expectantly, relatively relaxed, since I was just the pony they walk with the racehorse to the starting gate, making this possible for him. The youngster started in on about rules and expectations. I sort of tuned out.

"I have both of your lists of concerns, and some of them are the same. Should we start with one of them?"

I shrugged. I admit to being a tiny bit curious what the guy could pry out of Mr. Thinkin' Before Talkin,' but I was just here for the popcorn.

"Let's start with something which should be easy. Both of you tell me where you work."

I did an eyeroll and sigh. Asking me to perform here was not part of the promised package. I made eye contact and formed one of the faces he used to understand pre-Donna, the _WTF is_ _this?_ Face. His flashed a bunch of things, not the least was _guilt._ My pissed-off meter began to rise.

Walt cleared his throat. "I'm Sheriff of the Absaroka County Sheriff's Department."

"Okay, that wasn't so hard, now how about you, Vic?"

This was an ambush. I was the deer in the headlights. _Think._

"I…don't know."

The youngster seemed genuinely taken aback. I guess that was supposed to be one of the _easier_ questions. "You don't _know_?"

Walt started to say something, but the therapist held up his hand. "No, the rules are not to talk for the other person. I want to hear what Vic has to say."

"I'm considering job opportunities," I finally said. It felt wretched to say. I could feel the hurt radiating from Walt even from a few feet away, even though I had told him repeatedly I was leaving and still looking. He had not been ready to listen, then, and evidently was still not now. I think he believed I had mysteriously changed my mind while he hadn't been watching, and I just hadn't informed him about it yet. I think it could be spelled _D-E-N-I-A-L_.

"I see. Well, maybe you can tell me where you _were_ working, when you suffered the injury?"

Well, that sounded like a trick question, too. If I answered I had left a letter of resignation effective immediately before the injuries, would my insurance be cancelled?

Walt's eyes burned into mine. I know he had covered for me, but this was part of his pattern, hell, part of mine, too. This simple thing I could not answer.

I cleared my throat and improvised. "I have worked for the Absaroka County Sheriff's Department as Undersheriff for about four years."

"Okay, that was good, Vic. Back to you, Walt, you are concerned about Vic's multiple symptoms, and Vic, you are concerned about Walt developing issues from several acts of violence in the last couple of years?"

"Especially Walt's, over the last couple of _months_ ," I muttered.

"Okay, what are _your_ symptoms?"

I inhaled, knowing more medical leave would likely follow if I admitted all of mine. Walt was on his own on this one, but I sanitized mine. "I had some dreams right after the Chance Gilbert incident. I was beaten with a bat while wearing a helmet, and a body bag I thought was Walt was dropped into the cellar where they were hiding us. I had both physical and emotional trauma from that, but I am much better, now."

"Why do you say you are better?" asked Carl, that was the young man's name. Fortunately it was on a nameplate on his desk. It hadn't registered when I thought I was just part of the furniture.

"Well, _Carl_ , the dreams occur much less frequently, and I just passed the physical to return to full duty. They are no longer impacting my quality of life."

"And what are Walt's symptoms?"

 _He turned into a dick_ , I thought uncharitably, but I knew he'd been through a couple of years of hell on his own before he'd ever even confided in me.

"A personality change," I said instantly. "We were close, but he started acting differently after one of our deputies was murdered."

"Differently, how so?"

I took a deep breath and didn't look at him. I had been asked, after all.

"The kindness, friendship, empathy he had shown me for three years disappeared, and while he said he wasn't going to miss anything else to endanger deputies, he did not order me to therapy, even after knowing I was having problems with baseball bats. After serving eviction papers for my house, he refused to let me stay at his house. He had me stay with his daughter Cady. After years working together, he announced his personal life was none of my business. He shut me out."

Walt sat there like a wooden puppet while I spoke. He eventually bowed his head.

Carl looked puzzled.

"Why would you not want to live with Cady?"

"Because I thought Walt and I—I thought—he asked me to _stay_. If he wanted a deputy, he should have asked for _that_. It was so ambiguous…"

Carl evidently thought he had extracted enough from me.

"Walt, how do you respond to her concerns?"

"I was served a Wrongful Death suit, for a person who I shot and later died in my home. I was later attacked in my own home. As a result, I am under constant scrutiny to follow procedures to the letter, and avoid any improprieties."

"I am _not_ an impropriety," I mumbled, to receive glowering censure from Carl.

I had evidently not followed the rule about letting the other person talk.

And so it went…

At the end of the session I felt drained, churning, diffuse. I felt like parts of myself were flying around untethered. I didn't ask Walt how he felt. He had turned taut and white after about three questions, delivering only monosyllabic answers to most of them after that. Carl might not recognize Walt in shut-down, but I did. I hadn't done much better.

I felt like a beer, but I heard Carl's voice in my head.

 _Avoid alcohol for a few weeks. It won't help._

We ended up at the Red Pony for iced tea and dinner. I questioned the propriety of _that_ , and he could not answer, but insisted on paying. Maybe he felt guilty for dragging me into it. I did, too.

XXX

For over six weeks the therapy sessions worked our emotional kinks out, bit by painful bit. I think Walt finally realized I had been deeply wounded and acknowledged his own part in the damage.

I began to realize from what little Walt said that he had become like one of Sunshine Sally's turtles, pulling all his extremities in and trying to stay safe and comfortable for a few months during an unsuccessful attempt to self-heal. He never divulged anything about us to Carl in therapy. I did hear more than I wanted to know about Dr. Donna, and intriguing information about Martha.

To him, Donna was Martha, comfortable and safe. He ignored red flags, her possible complicity in the Zoloft ring, and the barbed comments she made to him, both in dreams and reality. In turn, he sought out comfort in the form of physical release. In the end, I kind of felt sorry for Donna, used like that. Of course, she was using him, too, to deflect her own involvement. What was most interesting, the cabin assault wasn't even _coitus interruptus_ …they had barely gotten their tops off when the door had been kicked in…a tiny sop to my imagination, anyway.

Martha didn't want more children. She didn't like his profession. She constantly complained about his schedule, his drinking. After Cady went to college, trying to combat Walt's absences and her loneliness, she developed her crusades and joined endless women's clubs after Cady was grown. So it _wasn't_ all rainbows and roses. That gave me another sliver of hope.

He also talked about Henry, his childhood friend, who had grown distant about the same time Walt had distanced himself for me. I almost— _almost_ —felt sorry for him, that his touchstone for so many things had disappeared about the same time as Branch's death. That had to be hard, to lose Martha all over again, and then Henry…

Walt and I would leave for unspecified patrols at 3 pm and not return to the office, and no one ever said a word. After the sessions, wrung out, we would usually unwind with a glass of iced tea at the Busy Bee, and then, as we seemed to grow more confident of one another again, maybe a Rainier at the Red Pony, but it was not for a date or an evening of drinking. It was for comfort after a grueling afternoon, comparatively brief though each session was in length.

I had also grudgingly attended the more publically scheduled physical therapy and occupational therapy sessions to regain full use of my arm. The therapists proclaimed me nearly healed. Even so, I could feel it, that while I was conflicted whether to stay or go, Walt felt utter panic—relief that I was nearly healed, but terrified I would bring him the papers to sign off on any day.

Ferg had confessed one day when we both happened to be at his place doing laundry, "I don't know whether you know this, Vic, but Walt talked to me when you began sleeping on my couch."

"He did?" I hadn't known that.

"Sort of went around the bush but in the end talked about watching myself around you."

I chuckled. "He did? Did he call me The Terror?"

"Thing is, I'm not entirely sure whose intentions he was worried about?"

That earned a full-throated laugh. I patted him on his shoulder.

"You're safe, Ferg. I'm reformed."

It didn't help that it felt like the friendship between Walt and me seemed to be tentatively renewing, although nothing ever crossed either of our lips. It was understood, like almost everything had always been between us, and not discussed. The therapy had not improved _that._ I felt like passing a letter to Carl like those needing help on the Rez had sent Hector…and let Carl know that Walt's anxiety was hidden, but present.

But I didn't. I was done with telling on other officers if the conditions were not life-threatening. Carl would have to figure out the dynamics between Walt and me all on his own.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N – Okay, so been fighting a bad cold and writing for NanoWrimo all week, and 10k words given the challenges?—I'll take 'em. My novel is coming together, thank you very much, some of you have read excerpts.**_

 _ **Here's Chapter 9, one more to go.**_

 _ **Reflections on watching S4E9 last night with the posse: the LYING everyone was doing was simply abysmal writing. I don't see that in our writing, unless Walt is trying to deflect or steer Cady wrong instead of admitting a relationship with Vic. It's just cop-outs with poor plotting.**_

 _ **So, did anyone else hate all the lying? And why could Walt have any jurisdiction on the CROW reservation? What happened to the Third Man (t-shirt man) who was NOT shot…? And why hasn't Walt figured out that Henry is Hector, yet?**_

 _ **None of those burning questions are addressed in this chapter. They are merely food for thought as you address the PTB in tweets and/or emails for the upcoming season.**_

 _ **Enjoy…**_

Chapter 9

It was a late fall, crisp, afternoon, for the expected snowstorm had been delayed by something meteorological, letting it settle as a bruised swirling dervish high in the peaks. Walt preferred to think of its eventual arrival in Durant as a welcome annoyance…a snowstorm might delay Vic's final therapy sessions, and in turn, her departure. Maybe it would give him few more days with her. He'd take that.

In the Bronco, he could sense her restlessness, and his fear returned.

"Why did he call it _couples_ counseling last session, Walt? We aren't a _couple_. You told me it was for _partners._ "

"You _are_ my partner, or _were_. I'd like—that—again."

He knew he was in trouble when her eyes wouldn't meet his, she wouldn't answer, and she was looking out her window. He felt defeated during the rest of the short trip to the therapist's hideout.

Carl greeted them, let them settle, and made a few pleasant inquiries, before he asked him point-blank, as though he were firing an emotional missile, "Walt, this morning, why don't you start by telling us your feelings for Vic?"

This was it, the emotional blindside which he'd feared for so long, the one with the power to transform him into jello.

The dreams of Vic during the spring had been temporarily replaced by both Martha and Donna, who had now disappeared again. They had been replaced for a time after the cabin invasion by nightmares he could never remember, and then more recently The Good Dreams returned again…of _her_. He knew he had what Vic had snorted at once, the "Deer in the Headlights, Busted" look…and yet he was powerless to articulate what he felt.

Carl waited pleasantly, expectantly, before turning to Vic. "Maybe we should start with you. Can you describe your current feelings for Walt?"

Her eyes met his own, looking no less tormented, and unable, unwilling and unready to say anything when he could not.

The awkward silence was deafening, equally condemning, and s _hared._

Walt abruptly stood up. He couldn't take it anymore. He had endured the therapy for weeks, for _her_ , but this question…this _one_ answer _…_ was not for Carl's ears.

"Vic, with me!" Out of her long habit to obey and follow, she sprung up facing him. He grabbed her hand and they exited the offices rather quickly, and he didn't apologized when his long strides made her trot beside him.

"Walt, what the _fuck—_?" she started to say, but he moved so fast, he was convinced she concentrated on not tripping instead of cussing him out. He almost threw her into the Bronco passenger seat, where she rapidly buckled in.

"Do you have ammo?" he asked equally as abruptly.

Her eyebrows furrowed, but she shrugged, "Of course, at least a few dozen rounds."

"Okay."

And he almost threw _himself_ into the driver's seat as they sped away.

"Okay," she got out after she caught her breath. "What was all _that_ about?"

"I don't think those things are his business, or what the county is paying him for every week." He halted, unsure what, if anything, to say next, he froze inside. Shit, she must think he didn't _have_ feelings. His own heart plummeted as he watched her shoulders slump. He added, "They're our own." Saw her shoulders slump even more, if possible.

"Yeah. Right."

He blinked his eyes slowly as he drove, as he thought of what he had just said, and what he'd told her in the alley…that his feelings were none of _her_ business, and he felt even lower. He had no idea how to fix what came out of his traitorous mouth, but he needed to act soon, or she'd leave and he'd be left with only Eamonn to remind him of her.

Heck, she might take up again with Eamonn, but if the younger man had been _right,_ and Vic _had_ wanted _him…_ Well, she'd evidently wanted him at least that once, when she'd come out to the cabin while he was Jacob-hunting. He had no idea how to make her want him again.

 _Get it right, just once…_ He thought of his words to her at the river even as he sifted for evidence in Branch's murder. He wondered if his moment of inspiration as they fled therapy had any merit toward that. He thought she vaguely recognized the road they turned on, the Bronco not with lights and sirens, but at a goodly speed.

"Fuck, the _shooting range_?"

"Yep."

She made a noise through her nose, but he ignored it. She'd understand soon enough.

She said slowly, maybe a little tremor in her voice, "I'm not sure I should be out here right now."

"It'll be all right." He hoped he was right.

He pulled up much as they had with all the deputorial candidates a couple of months ago. He found a permanent marker stashed in the console and dropped it in one of his jacket pockets.

"What now?"

"We shoot."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, and he couldn't blame her. Maybe it _was_ a stupid idea.

He led the way, they got eye and ear protection, and he removed some targets from the waterproof cylinder which hung under the overhang.

He stalked out to the targets, began clipping them on and flipped the pen up.

On one, he wrote directly over the heart WALT. On the next one, he wrote DONNA.

He came back to find her loading her Glock to capacity. She had not yet seen his additions to the targets.

He silently loaded his own.

When she looked up, she saw the targets and stilled.

"It'll be your one chance," he said looking up, "to get it out of your system. No one watching, asking questions, or prodding. I know you want to."

She looked at him like he was crazy. It was the _WTF, Walt?_ look all over again. Maybe, at that moment, he _was_. He just couldn't live with her everyday anger and apparent indifference any more, but he would take even that over the chance of living without _her._

He gestured her to take her stance.

"Fire at will to the target of your choice on the count of four, "One two three FIRE!"

The noise was deafening. When the smoke cleared, he could distinctly see a large hole where "Donna's" face had been. His, however, was unmarked.

He tilted his head in question.

"Keep your weapon holstered," she ordered him with a straight-arm signal for safety, and walked out to the other target with his name, then put her arms around it and rested her head on where his chest would be.

His heart stuttered and hope fluttered, where before there had been a dead zone.

She walked back, her stride less cocky than usual. "Give me your marker!"

He did, and she trotted back out to the other two targets. As she returned, he could see in a clear Block print, "VIC" on one, and "EAMONN" on the other.

"Your turn," she said, he took his stance, and she called out, "One, two, three, FIRE!"

The sound had barely faded when he immediately holstered his gun and walked around to the target labeled VIC enveloped it with his arms and buried his head against where its neck would be. Next to where he was standing, surrogate Eamonn was untouched. He had nothing against Eamonn, who had provided what she had needed at a moment when he could not.

"What now?" she asked from behind him, but it was in a very soft, husky voice he had rarely ever heard.

He stepped back and turned toward her, lips pressed together, and jerked his head. He was kind of out of ideas, but she held out her hand. He didn't hesitate, but walked up to her and took it.

"What fucking took you so long, Walt?"

He gave a long exhale, before pulling her into him, her cheek turned to his chest.

"Branch. Barlow. Both tragedies that didn't have to happen, that I might have been able to prevent. Nearly getting executed _twice_ , attacked in my own home. Worried about you with Chance and Branch and thought I wouldn't be able to live if you died as well. You were right with Carl, I had a lot to process and put to rest in a short time, and I did a lousy job with it."

"And Dr. Monaghan?

He hesitated. "Solace. I wanted solace for Branch and Barlow…I—I thought she was Martha. She wasn't, she was only Donna, tormented in her own way."

"And the Thursday night chess?"

"Same. Like Carl said, we find comfort and purpose in routine and repetition. New opportunities can be scary, especially when our psyches are wounded."

"But you didn't find it, there?"

"I kept wanting to confide in you, but you were going through so much with the divorce, then I had Barlow, you had the eviction, I didn't want to complicate things if Donna could give me some peace. I thought…"

"You never thought maybe _I_ was the only one who might or _could_ understand? I do this for a living too, you know."

He buried his face in her neck, much as he had with the target's.

"Not until you knocked the stupids out of me," he murmured for her ear only.

Her forehead crinkled. "What?"

"Something Lucian said. He—he thinks I should marry you."

"Shit!"

"More or less what I said—at first."

"Crazy old man, although he _did_ say we _both_ needed therapy."

"Crazy like a fox. So…what about Eamonn?" he asked. He needed to know.

"Well…he liked me when no one else seemed to. You'd been biting my head off, avoiding me, lying to me, treating me like I didn't exist. Giving me shit duty like Gab's house. I wanted to hurt you, but afterwards, I figured you never even knew. So, the alley."

"And in the alley?"

"You'd lied to me about the shirt, you'd lied about her at the hospital, and it just _happened_ at Cady's, the night before you came to talk to her about Gab?"

His chest grew cold. While he had been talking to Cady, Eamonn had been _inside_ with Vic…?

"Yeah," she said, "then. And I hated myself for it, but when you wouldn't talk to me, hiding the Doc thing, what the new shirt meant, and then that edict about your personal life…Fortunately, Eamonn is a good friend although no longer lover, and told me to figure myself out before anything _us_ could happen. I think he already knew he was not The One."

"Who _is_ The One?"

She punched him in the gut, but softly, and she was grinning. Pulling her punches for once was a good sign, he thought, and she was _grinning_. That was a _good_ thing.

"Vic," he whispered, pulling her to him, and he felt like he was bestowing a benediction with her name. It felt so right, even just holding her. "So, where do we go from here?"

She shook her head, then stopped and cocked it. "I—might know a place."

"Not the cabin?"

"Not yet—Not. Yet. Something just for us, somewhere without Martha or Donna ghosts, and we don't want to scare the shit out of Ferg, or he might become one." She grinned as though viewing a private image of that.

"Okay."

In the end they took the Bronco, neither willing to be apart for as long as the drive would take to go back to the therapist's and then on the road again.

He held her along his side in the car, disregarding seat belts for once. She took liberties, touching him where she could, and he knew that the first time he would not last, but that it if he had any say in it, it would be far from the last time.

She directed him to pull off the road near the little treed cove she had found near Lake Desmet. She pulled out the 'dead guy' blanket and they walked to the top of the small hill where they could view the lake from seclusion. A couple of boats were out in the middle, fishing. Across the lake on the other shore a lone fisherman sat in his camp chair drinking. It was a place for thinking, or…for lovers. It was cool, but still held a taste of the late sun. It was… _perfect_.

"I used to spend time here. Cady was great, but I had to be alone. I—could let myself long for you here, and at one point, even wondered whether I should just walk into the lake and not come back."

He stilled. It had been _that_ bad? Well, obviously it had. His guilt returned.

But she was still speaking…

"This is, being with you here, would be like, redemption for all of that, that it was all worth it." She exhaled.

He wanted to apologize, for shutting her out, for Cady's house, for Donna, but he was left speechless by the dappled pre-sunset shadows making her appear to be like a gilded fairy in his forest…

He didn't need more of a hint. He touched her face, and grazed the other cheek with a fleeting but open-mouthed kiss, more question than statement.

He thought the look she gave him might just melt him into the leaf scatter and dirt, as she launched into his arms…

XXX

"Sometimes I would like someone else to be sheriff," he sighed, before nuzzling her neck where she lay next to him. Despite the afternoon chill, they both still lay only partially clothed.

He had been right, the first time had been fast, the second much more leisurely, but it was now sunset and cooling quickly, and probably time to seek warmer sanctuary for any further fun.

She straightened.

"Like me? Sometimes I can be the sheriff when we're together?" She leaned over and bit his neck near where it joined his torso. He thought maybe she liked that just a little too _much…_

"Sure," he said, a mixture of a laugh and a groan.

"You'd let me be the boss of you?"

He responded by pulling her on top of him. One more time, and he'd wrap them up tight in the blanket. No dead guys, here.

"Sure, _somebody's_ got to be the sheriff…"


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: FYI in Chapter 9, the self-medicating shooting therapy is my personal modeling after 'play therapy,' often used for children who can't articulate what or who has hurt them, or how they feel. I just adapted it to a practical adult malady to address what both of our characters have suffered from during the entire series (and in the books, BTW.)**_

 _ **Also, the Ch 9 shooting sequence and the (yes, admittedly abbreviated) sexual situation afterwards was based on the Rebelwaltz & GM2 writing prompt. Thanks for letting me play, gals!**_

 _ **P.S. The Dead Guy blanket had been washed, although I am told it is a 100% wool Pendleton blanket and would have to be hand-washed and line-dried. I forgot to put that line in, though, so the blanket didn't 'get on the line' either.**_

 _ **Back to this chapter, this may be the last you see from me in November. These last two offerings count as 5,000 words today, but I'm going back to work on my novel tonight and try to finish it via NanoWrimo this month.**_

 _ **I do have this idea of…perhaps a writing prompt for the holidays? What do you think, folks, since there are NO holiday shows?**_

 _ **Enjoy!**_

 **Epilog**

The past two months had been incredible. Living with Walt was like a complex chaos. For a place so quiet and rural, living together was full of fireworks and orchestras. It was not just the sex, it was the logistics of daily living, but I think we were both coming around to the facts that 1) it took longer than we thought to settle in together and 2) we really wanted to be around one another.

It started with me not wanting to sleep in Martha's bed. Somehow the couch seemed like much more neutral ground, and Walt admitted he and Martha had never had sex, there, so we broke that in quickly. The solution was, of course, a new bed which we had to break in properly, and often, as well.

It continued when Walt and Eamonn were bristling around one another one day at a crime scene in a field. I think it was after Walt had left me to contend with a corpse of an organized crime figure while he went off to investigate the disappearance. Eamonn had thought I could use a hand.

Well, Walt had left me with much trickier situations before, like his wild mare and all sorts of dead people, so I was nonplussed, but Eamonn taking up for me was kind of sweet, but Walt wouldn't have it.

"Vic knows her job," he almost growled to Eamonn, taking his stand.

"And a little help is sometimes—helpful," offered Eamonn, with his own stand.

Ooh, I saw the young bull and the old one again, temporary standoff.

"Guys, I can handle this," I said, before the bloodshed could commence. I half-wistfully remembered the entertainment factor when Walt and Branch had gone at it, once. I sometimes did miss Branch, even though Eamonn was the much better team player. "You guys go find the Maritawa guy who you think took him out."

They sort of looked down at the ground. Walt spat. Eamonn pulled out his cell phone.

"Okay if I call my contacts in Boston?" Eamonn asked and Walt grudgingly nodded.

I called for an ambulance, because that's the smart thing to do instead of hauling a body around like Walt usually does. They could get him to Doc Weston or Bloomfield or whoever was doing autopsies today faster than I could. When I finished, Eamonn was off a ways, presumably talking to his contact.

Walt came back over to me.

"I don't—" I think he was trying to apologize, and failing abysmally. I rescued him.

"Duh, Walt, stand down. It's not Eammon, and it won't ever be. He has a girl over in CC, now, named Sam."

"Sam?"

"Samantha, their Ruby. I guess she's crushed on him a long time, and he finally succumbed?"

"Oh." He looked somewhat abashed.

"Plus, he's just a shadow for me, Walt, a shadow of you." I sneaked a quick kiss on his ear. "See you back at the station?"

'Kay." He still looked a little disgruntled.

"Oh, ye of little faith…" but I was giving him my private smile.

He seemed to shake it off.

"Give me your phone. I'm going to call Mathias and let him know who we're hunting."

He called, and it sounded pretty cordial. I wondered if Mathias was sick, or just mellowing as he eased into the Longmire sphere.

Walt handed my phone back.

"Are we kind of now _really_ doing the Task Force thing with him?"

I thought of my first meeting with Mathias, where my fist had wanted to meet his nose.

"Sort of. Good days and bad."

"Like us?"

"No." His voice was surprisingly forceful, his hands on my upper arms, but firm, not hurtful. " _Not_ like us. All our days are good," he said, "just some more than others." That last was said in rueful tones.

I exhaled through my nose. "Okay, a little cheesy, but I'll take it." And then I leaned over and whispered into his ear, "That's why I love you."

Let him stew over _that_ for a while. Neither of us had used the 'L' word, yet, although I thought it was pretty obvious that either of us would die for the other, we couldn't seem to express the three word clichés to the other.

He drew away, maybe startled a little, but a tiny smile flickered across his lips.

"Okay." He strode away, and I thought I detected just a _hint_ of a bounce there. I would like to think something from me, or our nights together, had put it there.

XXX

Kids had been mentioned in passing, usually after a particularly energetic and sweaty session together. He would ask what I thought and I usually didn't answer.

The truth was, I wasn't sure, yet. So far, we were good as a couple, but I wasn't sure what the stresses of a family would bring. The associated birth control question had come up once, I had told him I was on it, unlikely to mess up, so it was answered and by him, apparently accepted. He hadn't asked me to stop using it, and I didn't offer.

I wondered if he wanted the son he'd never had, or whether through fate that by the time we got around to it, my age would render me infertile, or that I might give him another daughter. I was afraid to find out, or even ask myself if that was what it really was.

He had asked me to marry him twice, once in the shower, once in bed. Both times I had said I wanted to wait, truth was, I was scared shitless. I had married the 'perfect person' and been oh-so 'perfectly' miserable the first time.

Bills were also a bone of contention, one of the reasons settling in took a while. He didn't _have_ many, while I had some lawyer divorce bills, a couple of small credit cards, but all ones which added up. He told me to pay off whatever I owed out of my paycheck and then could contribute something to the cabin kitty each month, but when I saw what he paid out every month, I almost died of shock.

The mortgage on his property, _all_ of it had just been paid off for the last couple of years. The last few years before that, he had put most of his salary into paying back the money he'd borrowed for Cady's law school, and for Martha's treatments. Now most of his paycheck went into his retirement accounts, which he had _not_ drained for Henry Standing Bear. That had been the standalone 401k from the county.

He paid for food and beverages, except for those at work. He had a septic and sewer. He paid for electric and gas and one phone line, but didn't have internet, satellite or any additional things bulking that up. All his professional societies dues, health insurance, gasoline and maintenance for the Bronco and so forth, were paid for by the county.

Sean had been paying _way_ more just for our rental house he had abandoned than Walt paid out in all his bills every month.

So I did as he suggested, began to pay mine off. I figured I would make up for it when mine were at zero, and put most of my check contributing after that.

Walt, however, wanted me to put most of it into _my_ retirement. "You may want to retire earlier than me," he said, and I felt a little like a freeloader.

It was really odd, but although I initially thought I'd lobby for it, I found I could live without internet, because when I was at the cabin, it was a refuge. It was _our_ refuge, the perfect quiet, after all the chaos of the world barraging us all day.

I would find myself seeking out the quiet, and find that in spite of the changing seasons, the reassuring chatter of a magpie or the rustle of the pines would let me know what was quiet was _not_ quiet, it was merely our place.

"Donna didn't understand that," he said early on in one terse statement about the _quiet_ , and only mentioned her once again.

Gradually, as we became easy with each other, Walt even came to play the piano for me. I never pushed, because of the _other_ comment about Dona.

"She tried to call me a chicken if I didn't play, but the truth of it was, I didn't want to play for…her. It somehow felt _wrong_." If only he'd trusted his gut on _that_ one.

Before Donna, I guess he had played for Martha.

One time he said of Martha, "She didn't like my musical selections," and left it at that. I gathered the rest, but I loved what he could do. I marveled that those same hands which could play me to perfection, were just as proficient at manipulating all those keys. I, on the other hand, despite four years of lessons as a child, could barely manage chopsticks, and only if carefully coached. Of course, it ended up with him sucking my chopsticks fingers…so I benefited, even if his ears didn't.

I did insist on a good tuning and cleaning for the piano, but I polished it myself and made it as welcoming for him as possible. His time with it was something I cherished.

If he was done with his after-dinner reading, he would often play, and with it came another outlet for his passion. He loved Fats Waller and R&B, but played slower Gershwin and Bessie Smith sort of songs just for me, when he was of a mind…which often led to other things…

I figured I could handle it if my worst competition had 88 ivory keys, but I did have one other female competitor for Walt's affections. She hung out down by the small barn down the slope from his cabin.

"She'll be Horse until she tells me her name," he remarked once as he struck out for the barn to break the ice skimming her trough one chilly morning. I shrugged. I could live with that, as long as I was his only other living ride, so I learned to cope with ignoring the ghosts and learning _our_ truths.

One thing I persisted on was having Henry over for dinner. I didn't understand the ongoing tension and apparent distance between them after so many years of friendship. I encouraged Walt to invite him for dinner, to which Henry finally relented. I did not question what had been involved in securing Henry's acceptance.

Over bison steaks on the grill outside with brisk (translate: blizzard) weather approaching, Henry and Walt discussed a winter-hunting trip. I stayed out of it, hoping they would resolve their differences and bond during the trip.

While the guys ostensibly hunted and bonded, I enjoyed four days of being in charge at the office, but alternated between craving the afterhours silence and desperately missing Walt…

When they returned, they seemed to have installed a measure of peace between them, and our freezer was successfully stocked with venison and trout.

I asked Henry about the reconciliation.

"It was a misunderstanding," he said cryptically, and would not say more.

When I asked Walt in bed much later, after _we'd_ shared a hot shower, he'd mostly shaved, and we had enjoyed our physical reunion, he said, "It was a misunderstanding."

My thought was, they each had a different story to tell, and that the nature of the _misunderstanding_ was far from simple, so, I let that one go. I had learned that with Walt you win some, you lose some, and that pushing didn't always work. The therapy had shown me that. His experiences with Lizzie and Donna had also shown me that.

Although we did have some fights, there were days we would both be rocked by laughter by something totally unrelated, like the day a great horned owl Walt had finally admitted frequented the cabin, swooped in while he was drinking his morning coffee on the porch before leaving for work, and dropped him a field mouse on the doorstep. Now, not having cats about, we occasionally had mice invade the house, we usually trapped them, but we didn't think we were the National Mouse Repository or anything like that.

I know the Cheyenne thought they were often messengers of death, but Walt didn't think so. He had explained the philosophy to me once, that they were often messengers of transition or unborn children as well, but it was a tortured description. With _this_ owl, however, he didn't have a care.

"No presents!" Walt had shouted at the owl. He had shaken a fist at the magnificent bird as he fluttered away, and I broke down laughing as the mighty Sheriff of Absaroka County discovered he had no jurisdiction over the wily owl. In the end, we wrapped our arms around one another and just laughed and laughed.

I think that, even more than the weeks of therapy, slowly led to our healing. It was despite seeing the weakness and failures of humanity during our days together, that we could come home, come together, and just be _us_ …

He rarely spoke of Martha, now, and I never spoke of Sean, except in passing, like, "Sean and I tried that restaurant," or other very impersonal things.

My bills diminished quickly with the whole of my salary going into them.

We seemed to finally be learning how to rub together in reasonably close quarters without a lot of stimulation from extraneous sources like televisions and phones. And, we had to figure out self-entertainment inside, especially during Durant from fall into winter, which was usually mostly winter to anyone from anywhere else. I did have my tablet loaded with books and movies, which Walt thought was interesting, but preferred the heft, paper, and he claimed the _smell_ of the real thing.

Finally, one night the week before Thanksgiving, he broached those deferred topics again. We lay in the new bed Walt claimed we had _almost_ satisfactorily broken in. He joked _it still needed a lot of practice to make it perfect._ He held me in his arms and whispered in my ear.

"Marriage, children, how we share our finances, those things are still all on the table, honey."

"Yep," I said in acknowledgment.

"Will you, with me?" he asked, still whispering, and I thought of a young therapist who needed therapy himself after hearing Walt's story. I thought of another who had almost, _almost_ been able to broach the dam inside where I visited quite regularly. The words were still coming, though, "Because I love you…"

I didn't answer right away. I held him equally close and smiled against his ear.

"Maybe the owl should be the one to tell us our future?" I finally whispered, overwhelmed, and fell asleep.

The next morning another mouse graced the front stoop. We stood over it, unwilling to acknowledge the coincidence. I knew Walt didn't believe in them. Our eyes met and I conceded the field.

We married at the courthouse the next day. Walt evidently had pulled the license the day after our shooting therapy session, months ago, and the license was badly creased and stained from life in his wallet, but the county clerks solemnly honored it.

Henry stood up with Walt, who wore a new shirt, and I had Ferg with me. I wore my old boots with my new dress uniform and a borrowed blue sash Cady had loaned me. She was in the audience, and patted Ferg's back as he cried after the ceremony was over. I wasn't sure what the tears were for, but I appreciated his support anyway.

Over the winter, I started to put 75% of my salary into retirement, and 25% into the kitty for us to share. Walt suggested the percentages after a meeting with his financial guy.

The owl visited us the next spring with a fresh offering laid at our doorstep, but given his previous message, I was afraid to consult him on any of the items still on the table—to wit, kids, the politics of Walt's next election, or even an upcoming stock market crash.

The next week I was late. I had _never_ been late in twenty years…but I acknowledged that my hormones were up. When I approached Walt a little later, chopping wood on that fine spring morning, a bit of sweat around the neckline and under his arms, and looking _mighty_ tempting, he took a break, a _long_ break from the chopping to make his wife very happy.

Amidst the ruins of our bedclothes, I quietly broached the late part to… _silence._ No, silence at the cabin was our heaven, but _this_ …I was afraid to say anything else. I couldn't bear it if he was appalled I had messed up.

He shifted me in his arms, as though to get a little more comfortable. One large hand splayed across my belly.

Then, "I've been hoping that owl delivery was for _this_ ," he said, rubbing my belly, and the joy in his eyes was all I needed to see.


End file.
